Ah! My Angel
by ShallowShadows
Summary: He thinks he can forget, at least for a little while, how he's losing some of the only family he has left by getting insanely intoxicated. But what he doesn't think is that his drunken attempt to order pizza will instead lead to such a strange phone call. "Hello. You have reached the Angel Relief Office. How may I assist you?" AU, Dean/Castiel
1. Ah! You're an Angel?

A/N: Even though I'm not as into anime and manga as I used to be, I continue to have a soft spot for Oh! My Goddess, one of the few manga I still read once in a while that finally ended this year after almost 26 years! This will not be a complete adaption; instead, this fic is just very loosely based off of OMG (ie; there are no goddesses with angels as their familiars, just angels). That being said, I will be adapting some concepts, scenes, and events from the manga and anime for this fic. I hope you enjoy!

Disclaimer: I don't own Supernatural or Oh! My Goddess, nor any of the characters from SPN. I don't make money off of this story.

**Updates every two weeks on Mondays. I'm not sure of the chapter count because I always write more than I expect to from my outlines.**

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**Ah! My Angel  
_Chapter 1 Ah! You're an Angel?_**

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Dean usually expects his alarm blaring his favorite classic rock station on IHeartRadio to the be the first thing he hears when he wakes up in the morning, but instead he's obnoxiously blasted with "Eye of the Tiger" and flinches so badly he gets a small kink in his neck. He lays there for a bit, eyes fixed on his phone like he could blow it up with solely his mind. No such luck. The ringing eventually stops, but quickly begins again after a few seconds of silence. He groans and reaches for his phone with clumsy fingers, practically dropping it off of the nightstand before hitting the "answer" option this time. "Yeah?"

"Dean!" The eager voice of his younger brother meets him on the other end of the phone and Dean realizes he was clearly too tired to even to see who had been calling in the first place. "I'm so happy you picked up the phone! I have awesome news that I had to share in a more personal way than texts!"

Sam's voice sounds even more cheery than usual, something Dean would've said was weird some time ago. Back when they'd lived together with their dad almost two years ago Sam had always sounded so miserable, fighting with their father on and off on a regular basis, bunting heads over the smallest of things. But lately the Sam of then becomes more and more of a distant memory each time Dean receives a chipper text or occasional phone call.

This has been a growing trend, not unusual, since Sam had gone off to college. He seemed to finally be enjoying life. He made friends, met a nice girl he started dating named Jess, scored high on his law school entry exam—Dean was and is happy for him, _truly_. Sam is the brother he'd practically had to raise himself and he wants nothing more than for him to be well and _happy_. But despite that, Dean can't help the odd sinking feeling in his stomach as Sam continues speaking on the phone.

"So Jess and I… We were talking a lot lately, about the future and stuff." A few seconds of silence only makes Dean's sudden unexplained anxiety worse and Sam laughs, or rather, _giggles_ like a child who's learned how to ride a bike on their own with the training wheels off. "I figured since I did so well on my entry exam and I'd been thinking about it for a while, I'd finally surprise her."

"With what?" Dean sleepily asks, laying back into his pillow and trying his damnedest to mask the sinking feeling likely leaking into his tone. He hopes to the high heavens he won't regret his question that encourages Sam to carry on.

"I asked her to marry me, Dean, and you know what? She said _yes_. She actually said yes! Oh my God, the look on her face and the way she reacted, it was the cutest thing I've ever seen!"

Dean's stomach drops to the floor, but he can't help the smile from perking up his cheeks as well; even if Sam can't see it, he hopes it shows in his exhausted voice. "I'm happy for you, Sammy. Really. Congrats."

"I know," Sam responds, practically beaming, "and thank you."

There is quietness for a while and Dean knows it's partially his fault. Sam makes a few attempts to restart the conversation but Dean brushes them off with short, simple, and uninterested answers, his gaze trailing from random object to random object around the room until finally at his phone again where he quickly looks at the time. 8:35AM. Dammit, Sammy. Today was his day off.

"So, uh," this time Sam's voice sounds louder, a tad frustrated as he speaks, "did I wake you up?"

"No—" As short as the word is, Sam manages to find a way to interrupt Dean halfway through with an annoyed grumble. "Okay, yeah."

"Is that why you're so, I don't know, out of it?" Dean bites his bottom lip. There are so many things he wants to say, so many reasons why he is "out of it," and there is one in particular that is causing dread and insecurities to eat at the back of his mind. But, as he well knows, he isn't the "talk about feelings" type as much as Sam wishes he was. "Dean. Come on."

"Sammy, I'm just tired. You asked if that's why I was out of it and it is."

"Do you think I was dropped off by a stork yesterday or are you really that bad with excuses?"

"Ha, ha, wise ass. No, I'm seriously just tired. It's before 9 on my day off."

Sam's silence on the other end speaks volumes about his disbelief in Dean's half-truth. Like usual, he can always tell when his brother is keeping something from him and Dean knows it. "Is that really all or are you lying by exclusion?" he suddenly adds, tone flat.

Dean rolls his eyes even if Sam can't see it. "All right, Sammy, why don't you use your psychic powers to tell me what you think I'm hiding?"

"We've been over this. One, they're not psychic powers or abilities. And two, exactly how many times have you called me 'Sammy' through-out this conversation when you know I hate that?"

"About, hmm, three," he murmurs, his grin obvious in his voice. He knows he's getting what he's playfully dubbed a 'bitch face' despite not being able to see the expression of his brother on the other end of the phone. "But I thought you had those weird dreams that tend to come true. Creepy Twilight Zone crap. Do-do-do-do, y'know?"

The younger Winchester blatantly ignores the first comment. "Sure, yes, but that's more heightened intuition or something. Nothing supernatural. Mom had it too 'cause she was a mom. Woman's intuition heightened by mama bear mode."

"Aww, Sammy, is this your way of telling me you're pregnant, seeing as your 'heightened intuition' has gotten stronger lately?"

"Dean, I swear to God—"

"I'm happy for you though, about your engagement. When's the wedding?"

Sam seems a bit taken off guard at the topic switching back and goes quiet on the other end. A moment more passes before he finally responds. "We haven't decided yet, but we want a date convenient for most of the guests. It'll be a small gathering by the ocean. I really want you to come. When it comes to family, you're all I've got left aside from Bobby and I'm not going to make you sit inside of a church. I know you hate churches."

"Look, Sam, as much as I'm happy for you, you know how I feel about weddings—"

"Dean, please."

"I'd love to, because I bet there'll be a bunch of babes all dressed up as bridesmaids and I want to see your big stupid teary-eyed face, I just—"

"You're my brother and I miss you."

Dean's snappy comebacks and excuses all drain from his head instantly. Damn, _he went there_. Dean can't argue that those words reach into him and twist something in his chest hard, because despite not wanting to admit it, he misses Sam too. He misses their road trips across the country together in Dean's Impala. He misses how much shit Sam would give him for eating nothing but fast food while Sam himself would get a salad or one of those health shakes. He misses the dirty, judgmental looks he'd get for each corny pop culture reference he'd make or how he'd enjoy the idea of some nerdy thing like LARPing or RPGs. He misses the short jokes, shoulder grabs, warm, stupid, girly, totally-not-enjoyable-but-kind-of-actually-that-Dean-will-never-admit-to hugs. He misses Sam and everything that makes Sam, well, Sam.

When Dean sits up in the bed, he can't help rubbing the back of his neck in a guilty fashion. He knows how much this would mean to Sam and even himself (after all, any excuse to see Sam is a good excuse), but he also knows how drunk and awful he acts at weddings, how they make him feel like complete and utter crap despite the happy atmosphere and hope for the future. He wants to go, wants to make Sam happy and do this for him, but he knows himself better than anyone in the end.

"All right, fine. But you'd better have insurance or something," Dean finally says, interrupting the rambles of Sam's many different begging attempts on the other end that Dean had mostly zoned out while thinking.

Sam sounds almost grateful when he responds, clearly more than content with the news. "Awesome. So I'll keep you updated and let you know when we send the invites out. It probably won't be for a while though, maybe a year or two while we focus on studies. She knows how much law school means to me."

Dean knows himself better than anyone in the end—and saying "no" to Sam is a weakness of his he won't and can't deny, especially when they hardly see each other anymore. Dean works as a mechanic, so his schedule is especially packed during the spring, summer, and fall, and he hardly wants to drive all the way to California in the winter through the storms of the rest of the country. Sam's a full-time student who works during most of his spare time, particularly in the summer even with taking classes then too. Their schedules clash and so any opportunity to spend time together is often met with disappointment. Dean doesn't want this to be one of those times, not when it's such a big day for his younger brother.

"So, uh, Dean, now that that's out of the way, are you going to tell me what you're not saying or do I have to play the guessing game with you?"

The older Winchester sighs overdramatically and shifts his body, rolling over onto his stomach and hanging his left arm off the bed, the right holding the phone to his ear. "Can we not, Sammy? I'm really not up for the chit-chatty talk-about-our-feelings crap."

"Well, you never are. But if you really, _really_ aren't—"

"I'm really, _really_ not."

"Okay." A simple one-word response is enough to signify Sam's not giving up the war, but that he's willing to forfeit the battle. "So I guess I'll text you later. Let me know if you do anything different today for once. I know how you waste time watching TV and doing other unproductive things on your day offs." A small chuckle follows the words, which instantly lightens the mood once more.

"Yeah, yeah, okay. Let me know if you decide to pull the stick out of your ass or if, you know, that's actually a kink you and Jess are into. That'd be kind of sexy of her and I'm not judgin'. Just sayin'."

"Gross, dude, I'm not talking to you about our sex life."

"Lighten up, _bitch_. I was kidding."

"Whatever, _jerk_."

The call ends with their usual joking banter before they say their goodbyes and Dean is left lying there feeling stupid and overemotional about things he feels he has no right to be this upset over. He's always wanted for Sam to be happy, yet he can't help the selfish desire to stop the marriage and anything that comes after that. His arm flops down by the other one, phone dropping onto the floor from the few inches off the ground his hand is. The gentle clunking noise does nothing to distract him from his suddenly whirling out of control thoughts.

If only his head didn't work the way it did and he could just let go of the brother he's so desperately clinging onto. If only he could find a more productive way to spend his time and be as motivated as Sam to improve himself. If only he could discover how to live in the present with his goals set in the future, the past becoming merely memories and lessons learned.

If only he could just silence the static in his head long enough, then maybe he could—

There's a very good reason why Dean Winchester should never be left alone to dwell and overthink things such as situations like this. Over the years Sam had begun to notice it more and attempted to help him without much success due to the younger Winchester's own personal conflicts. The more Sam and their father fought, the more Sam left to be alone, and in an almost chain-reaction fashion, Dean's overthinking became worse, as did that very good reason he shouldn't be alone in his thoughts. He had their father to thank for originally showing him that very good reason in the first place.

Dean knows. He knows his particular chosen method to drown out the noise in his head is stupid just like his father's and yet he does nothing to combat it, instead giving in to the ridiculousness that is his overthinking problem "solution." He drags himself into the kitchen, opens the fridge, pulls out two six packs of beer and tucks a tiny bottle of something harder into his front pocket, moves his body towards the living room, falls backwards onto the couch—and then he drinks.

He drinks until both packs are gone and the small plastic bottle, also empty at this point, is lost somewhere on the floor. He drinks until his stomach hurts and he can't see straight, the urge to throw-up building minute by passing minute. He drinks until he forgets half of his conversation with Sam and can successfully pretend it never happened. He drinks until all he can hear in his head is silence and the striking ache in his chest feels like just a distant memory.

Time passes and he finds himself, fly down and a hand messing around, watching some terrible porno with his favorite 80's rock blaring in the background. One of his neighbors, one of the few home since his day off doesn't coincide with most of the others, angrily bangs on the wall every few minutes with threats to either report him to the landlord or call the cops. But Dean merely grounds out a, "_Shuddup_," before taking his freehand to toss a bottle at the wall in a feeble attempt to scare him off. He doesn't care about his neighbor's complaints but it quickly becomes annoying when he's trying to _enjoy_ himself and forget all his troubles.

"Dean Winchester, this is your last warning! I was enjoying my peace and quiet before you started being an intolerable arse as per usual! I am this close to calling the—!" The clashing noise of the glass as the bottle shatters against the wall causes the man on the other side to pause his complaints, seemingly shocked momentarily before his voice picks up again over the loudness. "Did you just… Did you _seriously_ just throw a bottle at my wall? Did you seriously just throw a _bloody bottle_ at my _godforsaken_ _wall_?!"

Dean grunts and rolls his eyes, further aggravated now that he can't at all focus on what he was doing. Of course, the intoxication is certainly not helping, but he really wants someone else to put the entirety of blame for everything on and that British bastard is making it way too easy. "Shob' it, asshath!"

A thud against the wall, likely a punch, proceeds more yelling. "All right, Winchester!" He can already tell where this is going and he's so not in the mood. "If you want to play that way, you know I am more than willing to play along!" A moment of silence from the other side passes and then a string of loud knocks on his door begin, angry shouts for him to open the door following.

Dean is about to throw another bottle at the door when suddenly his music is interrupted by static, loud and uneven in volume, mostly overpowering the angry neighbor on the other side of his door. His TV's audio becomes screwy only moments later, the picture going in and out between a mess of pixels and the program he was watching. His lights flicker and his clocks go a little crazy, the digital numbers speedily flicking through 0 to 9 over and over again, followed by what sounds like a high-pitched whistling that pierces Dean's ears to the point of pain.

Dean, far too drunk to comprehend what is happening in the least, lifts his hands to cover his ears, face scrunching in agony, teeth clenching tightly together. Almost as quickly as it begins, the whistling stops, and he flinches when both the TV and radio completely shut off at the same time. The angry screams and knocks on the other side of the door cease almost immediately after the electronics, the only sounds for some minutes annoyed grumbles that eventually fade as the man returns to his apartment with an angry slam of his door.

Dean sits in confusion as his clocks and lights return to normal, but the radio and TV remain off, the only signs of electricity running into each object the little red power indicator lights. He feels something warm trickle down his cheeks from his ears and he lifts a hand to wipe at it, finding red coating his fingertips. "Wha' t'hell?" Dean mumbles, words slurred from a mix of the alcohol and ringing in his sore ears. He looks around with weary eyes before getting up on his feet and hobbles to the bathroom to clean his face and ears.

Thoroughly disturbed, he examines himself in the mirror while wiping off the thin trickles of blood along his jaw. Dean's not sure if he's dreaming or just too drunk, but he figures in some way that this is karma for his obnoxious music, so he doesn't bother to even attempt to turn back on the radio when he returns to the couch. Instead, he flicks the TV back on, keeps the volume low, and changes the channel to some bad documentary on bank robbers of the early 20th century.

Because of this combination of things, the alcohol, the boring television program, and his aching head, he starts to doze off after a while, nodding in and out between commercial breaks for small periods of time, mostly 5-10 minute intervals. He doesn't remember bringing his cell phone with him or turning off the volume, but wakes up a time later to find it vibrating on the small side table next to his armrest. He reaches for it, eyes struggling to focus on the screen. It's a text from Sam checking in on him with a simple 'What's up? Did you get more sleep?' Dean doesn't even know how to answer that for once, still confused from what happened not long ago. Was he dreaming? After all, he's still extremely drunk. But even so, that doesn't explain the dull ache in his ears or the dried blood on the hand towel he brought back with him.

It's after a few minutes of failing to come up with an explanation for Sam that Dean decides he's really hungry and desperately wants something ready-made to be delivered. He figures he's still too drunk to properly make something and doesn't want to unnecessarily worry Sam by ending up in the hospital from stovetop burns or something of the like. All of the clocks in the apartment read 1:26PM, so Dean concludes, despite his hazy state of mind, that it's not too early to order pizza. He clumsily operates his phone, opening the dialing area and squinting to enter the digits of a place in town where he and Sam used to get pizza all of the time.

When he presses call, he makes sure to lean against the couch for support, body slightly turned, a shoulder pressing into the back cushions and a cheek resting over the top of them. He puts the phone to his ear and closes his eyes. The dial tone carries on for a while longer than usual, not striking strange to him in the least. Pizza places get busy, right? Maybe they're just taking a lot of orders? Dean doesn't even consider that he'd likely be getting a busy tone if that were the case. Instead, he stays the way he is and just waits.

A clicking noise on the other end perks him up just a tad and he's about ready to murmur his usual order when a gravelly voice picks up on the other end instead of one of the preppy pizza people. "Hello. You have reached the Angel Relief Office. How may I assist you?"

Dean's mouth hangs open a bit and he opens his eyes halfway, brows furrowed together in confusion as he stares at a wall. "Wha?"

"My apologies. I can repeat if you wish."

"Uh. Ya'?"

"What I said was—you have reached the Angel Relief Office. How may I assist you?"

Dean's brows come together further and he can't help biting down onto his bottom lip and swallowing, two nervous habits he picked up over the years. He sits in silence, trying his damnedest to force his tired and drunken brain to work. "Y'said… Angel R'lief Of'ice?"

"Yes, that is correct."

"I'm… drunk."

"Oh." The words are more meant to be a reassuring gesture to Dean himself that his confusion is only natural more than an actual conversation piece to the voice on the other end. The simple response sounds neutral, neither judging nor content with the words. "I understand."

Dean nurses his bottom lip for a while before attempting to speak again. "I th'nk I dialed the wron' numba'."

"This help line is reserved for those who desperately need assistance from a celestial level of being. I am most certain you did not dial this number mistakenly."

"Huhwha?" Dean lets himself slide down the couch until he's lying on his back, now directing his bewildered looks towards the ceiling of his apartment. He hasn't heard someone speak with no contractions at all since his 10th grade English teacher. She was kind of hot, actually. "Why y'talkin' so funneh?"

"I do not understand. I am speaking in a humorous manner?"

"Y'don't use… the thingehs. The… the… contrapuns—c-contractions."

"I do not understand the relevance of my grammar in regards to this conversation, Dean. I feel that it is just fine as you still clearly understand me."

"Nevamin'," Dean mumbles, rubbing his head with his free hand, eyes shut tight. "So wha's this—wait, how'd y'know muh name? I didn' say."

The voice on the other end seems to be losing a bit of patience, perhaps at the point of annoyance even. Dean can't blame him—not even Sam can handle Dean for long when he's this drunk, why would a complete stranger be able to? "That is not relevant either. You dialed this help line for a reason, Dean Winchester. What is it?" the voice asks, pressing for an answer Dean isn't sure of himself.

"I jus' wan'ed a pizza, man," he says helplessly, further confused by his full name being used, "an' I dial'd t'wrong numba instead. Unless dis a prank, cuz then Sam's gon' git it good, I'swear."

The man on the other end goes quiet and Dean hears a bit of noise that sounds something like typing, but he isn't entirely sure especially in the state he's in. "Nourishments for a single afternoon for the reasons you desire are not relevant to this office. We assist in granting a heart's true desires. And I assure you, this is not a trick with mischievous intent."

"True desiyahs?" Perhaps it's due to his drunken state of mind, but Dean begins to, likely incorrectly, put the pieces together of what he's actually dialed. He turns to look at his television, recalling the bad porno he'd had on earlier, and a sly smile perks up the corners of his cheeks. "Oh, I geddit."

"Ah." The voice practically sighs, perhaps in relief, perhaps in irritation, Dean isn't sure. "I was beginning to believe you were too intoxicated to intelligently grasp the complete concept of my words."

"Mnn, m'too." Dean laughs and licks his bottom lip. The good news in his mind is that he hasn't accidentally dialed a complete stranger, nor has he dialed the pizza place and is being pranked terribly by Sam and his asshat friends at the restaurant. The bad news is that he still isn't sure who, what, or where he's dialed, but with his head going back to the memories of the film he'd been watching prior to the strange "dream" he'd had, he figures he's reached some sort of sex hotline. True desires, huh? What else could this guy be going on about so "seriously"?

"So, Dean, what is your wish?" The words snap Dean out of his thoughts and he almost bites his lip hard enough to draw a small amount of blood, which makes him flinch in surprise.

"Uh," he spits out, ignoring the soreness of his lower lip, "I jus… I want…"

"Yes?"

"I jus' want someon' to fu'fil m'needs," he responds, feeling awkward saying this to another man despite his intoxicated state of mind. Seeing as there are usually woman on the other ends of these things, he kind of wonders if he's accidentally dialed a gay one, but the thought isn't a priority in his mind when he's so intoxicated.

"One moment, please, as I process your request and input it into the system." There is more typing on the other side, which makes Dean feel more confident with his conclusion. Surely the guy is just looking up some babe with a gorgeous voice and setting up the redirect call correctly. Maybe they even directly add the service onto your phone bill like some of the others Dean has called before. "How strange."

Dean quirks a brow at the words. "Wut's strangeh?"

The man on the other end sounds a bit concerned as if something has gone wrong and Dean can't imagine what in the world that could be with a sex hotline. "You, well, your request has been approved by the system successfully," the man begins, typing away at whatever keyboard he's been tapping at, "however, the caliber of this particular wish is beyond our usual capabilities, so the machine is having difficulty processing it and finding an angel to bind you with until the wish is fulfilled."

"Wut?"

"I cannot say I am completely surprised that you have caused our system to malfunction, Dean Winchester," the man explains, "because you seem as though you are the type to encounter these bouts of misfortune as regular occurrences."

"I hav' n'idea wut yer talkin' 'bout," Dean murmurs, confusion returning as he slowly grows more and more tired with each passing second, the alcohol catching up with him.

The voice on the other end sighs, not bothering to hide the frustration in its tone. "No matter what I continue to try in an attempt to cease the processing, I cannot stop the machine. It seems as though it is calculating every possible way to grant your wish and searching for a solution that will actually be substantial. I am going to receive punishment for this more than likely if I do not fix it, I just know it." The typing continues, this time more rapidly, as if nervous or angry.

Dean can't help feeling bewildered, because all he wanted was a simple sexy-voiced woman to help him pick-up where he'd left off prior to his neighbor's ranting. Had such a simple request really broken their computer system or something? Even figuring out something like this is far too much for Dean's overtired and over drunk brain to process however, because he can feel sleep claiming him, which would make his original request moot point anyway.

"You have my apologies for the wait. I am not entirely certain how long this will take. I would rather not place you on hold however, as I am aware of the importance of person to person interaction for humans."

"Dude, yer voice remin's me of Ba'man," Dean babbles, eyes draping closed. He doesn't even care to notice the man's odd tidbit about humans enjoying such interactions as if he himself isn't one of them. "Tot'lly not sexy enuff fer me anyway."

"Your intoxication is making you delirious, it would seem. Perhaps it would have been a more intelligent choice of me to have made this an in-person consultation when you were sober."

"Izzat how y'talk t'all yer clients?"

"Mostly, yes, and most do not take any issue with it. Do you find a problem with how I am speaking, other than my lack of contraction use?"

"N'sexy 'nuff. Girls who use dis stuff like sexeh. Yer voice'd be good for 'em even if n'f'me. I jus' like girls though, das why."

"I am concluding that I was correct in assuming you are too intoxicated for this call." Momentarily he feels a sense of familiar, mind shaping a "bitch face" much like the ones Sam directs at him during their in-person time, and the voice on the other end begins to mumble quietly to the point that Dean cannot comprehend the words anymore. Either that or Dean's just too damn out of it at this point, he isn't sure. "Dean?"

"Mm?" That he understands.

"I will resume this conversation with you at a later time once the machine has been addressed and you are more capable of rational thought."

"Bu wut 'bout—?"

"You will receive your wish, as promised. We are generally beings of our word and do not see much a point in lies and deceit. Oh, and Dean." Before Dean can respond with some stupid slurred response or even a half-hearted "huh?" the voice's tone changes to one of slight concern and continues on. "Please get some rest. I do not claim to know your reasons for reaching the state of intoxication you are in, but I do know that your voice reflects a deep emptiness or void within you that alcohol fails to correctly fill."

Dean opens his eyes, moving his phone down briefly and squinting at the number lit-up on his screen. "Wut y'talkin' 'bout?" he asks, lifting it back to his ear.

"Loneliness can be a heavy burden to carry. I am truly sorry."

Silence follows those words and Dean hears the "bloop" noise his phone makes when a call has ended. He brings it down from his ear to look at the number he'd dialed one last time before grumbling and letting his arm drop to hang off limply. He's too far gone to bother cross-checking the number with the pizza place at this point and the chances of him correctly processing what just happened are slim to none. Instead, he stops fighting the strong urge to give in to what's been claiming him for quite a while now as his phone slips from his hand and hits the old red throw-rug that covers his floor.

It feels like only seconds have gone by when he regains consciousness to a striking wake-up call straight through his temples. Dean groans and rubs his head, already loathing his decision to drink as much as he had. He opens his eyes to darkness, directs them toward the digital clock on his cable box, and waits for them to focus correctly. 11:59PM. Damn, he's been out for a while. Perhaps his body needed the rest though, because he realizes that sleep has always been something out of his grasp, and with all of the extra stress and worries lately, the strain is becoming apparent.

He moves to sit up, swinging his legs over the front of his couch with an arm pressed into the cushion to brace him up. His eyes continue to struggle focusing in the lack of light, but his hearing is as sharp as ever, because the moment something tips over in his kitchen Dean is quick to reach for the nearest heavy object, which happens to be his old baseball bat that he keeps next to the couch for nostalgia's sake.

Bat in hand, Dean moves cautiously toward his kitchen, doing his best to keep balanced, alert, and focused despite the pounding in his head. It's easier said than done because he almost trips several times, barely able to keep from falling needless to say continuing on. So this is what Sam had meant when he said one of these days Dean's alcohol problem would be the death of him—death by tripping and falling into a glass cabinet, that is.

As he approaches the doorway, he slows and presses his back against the wall there before peeking around the corner, knuckles turning white from how hard he's gripping the wooden handle. His knuckles turn whiter when he spots a shadowy figure standing by his sink. Dean curses himself for being so drunk because he's obviously left the door unlocked or something because there are no signs of a break-in thus far and there is clearly someone here that shouldn't be here. Dean knows Sam's silhouette well enough by now and he's the only other person with a key to Dean's apartment.

So instead of sneaking up and attacking the bastard, Dean's bright idea is to go with the first thing that pops into his head. "Hey! Who the hell are you and what are you doing in my apartment?"

The figure stills, and then turns to face him, the kitchen too dark to reveal anything other than his outline. Which is exactly why Dean is hella confused with the answer he hears in return. "There is no need to be frightened. I am not here to hurt you, only to access your situation in-person and to pick-up where we left off with our conversation. Therefore, the bat is not necessary and you may put it down."

"What the hell are you talking about? You're someone I don't know and you're in my house and—_shit_, ow." Dean cringes when a sharp pain shoots through his temple and into the back of his head. "Dude, _screw you_. I shouldn't be confronting you or talking or anything except getting rid of this damn hangover! Now get out of my apartment or I'm callin' the cops and _I hate the cops_."

The figure doesn't move for some seconds, instead seeming to process Dean's words, but then its head tips somewhat like a Parakeet's and Dean can't help being taken aback by the weirdness of it. "You do not remember, do you?" the figure asks, tone devoid of emotion.

"Remember what? That I drank too much, left my door unlocked, and now there's a stranger in my home who needs to get out?"

"You did not leave your door unlocked, Dean. I entered through the mirror in your hallway."

Dean laughs, almost as if it's a reflex. "Are you serious? Do you really expect me to believe that? And how the hell do you know my name?"

"It is the truth. Is that not enough? You humans complicate everything. And how I know your name is not of importance. I have already said as much."

"'_You humans_'? Are you high? Dude, seriously, get out of my apartment or I'm going to smack you over the back of the head and drag you out myself. You're creepin' me out."

The figure sighs, an arm moving into the air. Dean lifts the bat back up a little higher in response as if expecting to be attacked, but instead the figure simply snaps its fingers. Dean hisses a curse when the sudden bright spotlights of his kitchen blind his oversensitive eyes and he releases a hand from the bat to shield them enough that they have time to somewhat adjust.

"There. Now that you can see me, hopefully you will understand I am of no threat to you."

Dean's tired vision begins to focus onto the figure after some moments, which turns out to be a man of similar height to him, about 6-feet-tall and dressed to the nines with impossibly bright blue eyes the color of sapphires. His skin is a little more tan than Dean's own and his dark brown hair is a tousled mess. The black suit covering his body is pristine and lacks even a wrinkle, speck of dirt or a single hair, the only out-of-place thing the blue tie that matches his eyes twisted backward.

Those insanely blue eyes that don't exactly look human are focusing solely on Dean and he gets a chill down his spine. "Dude, have you been staring at me like that this entire time?" he asks, lowering his bat slightly, but still on guard. "It's kind of creepy, even knowing it was dark like ten seconds ago, which in itself is kind of creepy because I didn't realize I had the goddamn Clapper installed in my kitchen. Look, I know I'm hot, but you look like you want to jump my bones and I didn't invite you in."

The stranger quirks a brow. "Do not flatter yourself. You are certainly not someone I want to 'jump,' whatever that implies." He motions the first two fingers on each hand while saying the words to emphasize.

"Are you trying to freak me out or are you really just this weird?"

"How do you believe you appear to me, if I am strange to you?"

"I dunno. You're the asshat standing in my kitchen. What the hell do you want? My TV? 'Cause you ain't having it. I blew a pretty penny on that thing."

The stranger's shoulders slump slightly, his brows come together, and his eyes narrow, head tipping like a bird once more. "Why would I want your television?"

"Uh, duh, because it's a TV and worth money." The stranger remains in the same position, eyes narrowing a tad more. "Shit, geez. So you don't want the TV. Then why the hell are you in my apartment?"

"Our telephone conversation, Dean. You remember," the man says, taking a step forward. "I will make you remember."

"Whoa, whoa, whoa. This doesn't have to get physical. 'Cause I assure you you don't want to hear my body talkin' since that would mean my fist slamming into your fa—"

Before Dean can finish his sentence, he almost stumbles backwards because the man is right in front of him now, having not even taken another step. He leans in towards him, eyes staring straight into Dean's own, sending yet another chill down his spine. Dean can't help swallowing hard before he raises the bat high into the air, a self-defense reflex surely, only to have his wrist grabbed. He tries to move it but finds he can't, an iron grip holding it in place.

"Dude, what?! Let go and get out!"

"I already told you I am not here to hurt you. Why do you insist on trying to inflict physical harm onto me?"

"Gee, I dunno, Professor Calculus, maybe because you're a grown man standing in another grown man's kitchen when he doesn't know you and you won't _listen_ to him and _leave_."

The stranger's brows furrow once more, likely in confusion at the name Dean threw at him. He doesn't say anything, instead raising his free hand to Dean's face, pressing two fingers to his forehead in one swift motion. Dean tries to speak, but the sharp pain of his hangover increases when his head rushes with memories of earlier that day, from his conversation with Sam and the ache it caused in his chest, to his drinking fest to forget it all, to his angry neighbor having to deal with the consequences of said drinking fest, and then finally to his desire for pizza and the accidental phone call—

More memories come into his head—no, not memories, these are things Dean doesn't recognize, nor understand. These images, these words Dean doesn't remember but is being introduced to, they seem bizarre and don't make sense, explaining everything that the man on the other end of the phone had been talking about. The existence of angels, angels helping humans in need and granting wishes, a giant machine that processes such things and makes them a reality, all of it makes Dean's head hurt more than ever and he won't believe it, doesn't _want_ to believe it.

He gasps, almost falling to his knees, the only thing stopping it from happening the strong grip still holding his wrist. What Dean does actually do is drop the bat, the clang of the wood hitting the vinyl tile loud enough to wake a neighbor or two, but he couldn't care less right now. He's far too tied up in his current situation discovering that _angels_ really exist. "W-what just happened?" he asks, voice strained and bewildered as he struggles to keep standing. His head _pounds_ and it's hard to focus on anything.

"I told you I would make you remember. Of course, I also attempted to clarify by adding some information." The man steps back, releasing his hold on Dean's wrist. "I will give you some time to process. After all, I understand it is a lot to be exposed to all at once."

Dean stumbles out of the kitchen until he's reached his couch and practically collapses backward onto it, eyes watching the kitchen's doorway with a weary gaze. "What's going on?" he asks, not caring that his voice is shaky. Screw worrying about one's macho status right now, this shit is seriously messed up. "And what the hell _are_ you?"

"I thought I had made that clear with the information I gave you," the man says, stepping into the living room after a moment. He looks around once, examining his surroundings, before focusing his attention back on Dean. "I am an angel. Because you successfully caused our office wing's particular machine to malfunction and need resetting, and were far too drunk over the phone anyway, I am here to grant your wish in-person." He moves until he's standing just a few feet from Dean, small flickers of the Winchester's porch light shining through the open blinds and causing patches of illumination to not only cover the so-called angel, but to glimmer off those dark blue sapphires. "Now Dean, let us try this again. What is your wish?"

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A/N: This is a slow-building Destiel fic. Like OMG, expect lots of fluff, awkward moments, and cockblocks from jealous and/or protective family, friends, and enemies! Dean's loneliness is a parallel to his codependence with Sam in canon if not already obvious. Oh, and not to worry! Lots more of Sammy will be in this fic too, but I don't want to spoil how he's going to transition into his canon role as a main character. That'd ruin the surprise. ;)

As an additional note, I currently have eight different SPN fics planned with ideas ranging from as far back as January 2013; in order of ideas, "Ah! My Angel" is actually fourth on the list. I just went with whichever fics, this and "Apparitions," which will be up next week, I was in the mood to write first. It's been a while since I've written and generally worked on chapter fanfics (the last time I touched my Hetalia ones were April 26th, 2012 and May 3rd, 2012 according to the files), so it's going to take some getting used to, especially considering I wasn't a regular updater. In other words, please have patience with me!


	2. Ah! Those Who Believe Find Salvation?

A/N: Many thanks for the subscriptions and favs, loves! I am pleasantly surprised by the number of people enjoying this story thus far across websites. Thank you for the support!

Disclaimer: I don't own Supernatural or Oh! My Goddess, nor any of the characters from SPN. I don't make money off of this story.

**Updates every two weeks on Mondays. I'm not sure of the chapter count because I always write more than I expect to from my outlines.**

* * *

**Ah! My Angel  
_Chapter 2 Ah! Those Who Believe Shall Find Salvation?_**

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Dean's mouth feels dry much like the feeling of dehydration one would get after sleeping for 12 or so hours straight, and hell, since that about sums up the amount of sleep he'd gotten maybe he even _is_ dehydrated. Either way, it's the longest amount of sleep he's gotten in forever yet instead of making him see things more clearly it's opening him up to drowsiness, sickness, and pain—but that could also be the fact that he drank so much his blood is swimming with alcohol still.

He stares, wide-eyed, at the stranger in front of him, the light from his porch highlighting everything about him, everything that looks perfectly _human_. But this man, this _creature_, is not, and as much as Dean wants to deny it, there is nothing he can do to prove otherwise after everything he just saw and is still seeing in his mind. A trick doesn't explain complete sudden memories one has never had of a place they've never been, nor does any food or drink that's contaminated, at least not with the timing of said "memories."

"What the hell did you do to me?" he asks, head a thunderstorm from not only his hangover but the information he can't get out of it.

The man simply stares at him for a while, eyes curious like a cat's, though there may also be concern there. "It is completely normal to be in a state of disarray. Your body and mind need to adjust to the touch transfer of information directly into your brain. It can be a little overwhelming to a human. My apologies." He says the last words much softer than the rest as if sympathetic.

"Touch transfer—w-what?"

"I transferred information directly into your brain through that contact I made with your forehead. It is something we can do," the so-called angel clarifies.

Dean presses a hand to his temple area, shuts his eyes tight, and pinches himself extremely hard with his free arm. The pained noise that escapes him is proof that this isn't a dream, as well as how he can feel the sting straight through his skin and a small red mark appears where his untrimmed nail had dug in. He reopens his eyes and looks straight up—only to flinch at the man now hovering a few inches from his face, eyebrows furrowed and staring straight into Dean's eyes once he meets them.

He takes a deep breath to avoid yelling, because while he can deal with his grouchy British neighbor just fine, he doesn't want to face the wrath of his childhood friend Jo's mother, Ellen, who would come storming out of her apartment next door in her pajamas, drag him out of his place, beat his ass, then leave him outside for random passerbys and other apartment dwellers to mock. He never wants to get on her bad side not only for that reason, but because she is the one who helped him get and pay for his apartment in the first place. To this day he feels he owes her.

"Personal space," Dean ends up murmuring, swallowing once.

"What?" the angel asks, seeming confused.

"Personal space," Dean repeats. "You don't just get up in someone's grill like this. There is a such thing as boundaries and you're totally crossin' them. You already did when you broke in, but this is worse. Get the hint?" He pauses, waiting for the other man to move, but he doesn't. "Get out of my face, in other words."

"Oh." The angel backs away and stands with at least a few feet between them. "Is this better?"

"Yeah, sure."

There is a moment of silence as Dean kind of just stares at him, unnerved further by how human this _thing_ looks, yet his actions speak a whole other story that supports everything Dean was told and shown. It's almost ironic, really. Sam always believed in angels, even in the times he'd doubt God or gods or whatever else there may be up there. But Dean, Dean never believed in any of it. If someone even mentioned God he'd laugh and Sam would give him a scolding glare then tell him to be more respectful of other people's beliefs.

The thoughts only make him miss Sam more. _This_ situation makes him miss Sam more. What would Sam think if he saw a real angel standing before him? He'd probably get all excited like a little kid and his eyes would twinkle as they did when the two would visit an animal shelter and their dad would disappoint them by saying they could never get a dog because they were too much work. Sam's face each time would shatter, disappoint overpowering any excitement, and Dean imagines that it'd be much the same if Sam found out how _boring_ and _creepy_ angels were.

Speaking of which, the angel is now looking around except with more interest this time as his head turns and his eyes trail along the bulletin board with pinned photos, the cabinet filled with small trinkets the Winchester boys bought while on road trips, and then the old jacket of Sam's hanging on the rack that he'd left here in case he came for a visit. The way the angel looks at the items, particularly Sam's jacket, it's like he _knows_ and it only creeps Dean out further.

He turns back to Dean after staring at the coat for a while, eyes seeming softer, curious. "Your brother, is he—?"

"Away at college. Probably won't be coming back. He's engaged." Dean doesn't mean for his tone to be so harsh but there is a stranger in his apartment and he's asking about a very sensitive topic.

"I see." The angel looks away briefly. "That does indeed explain the extent of your intoxication. I had figured it was not simply addiction, though that also seems to be a problem of yours."

"Dude, fuck off," Dean snaps and he means it this time. "What do you even want?"

"I have already informed you many times now. It was far easier using the method I did rather than explaining in words. What more do you wish for me to explain? What do you not understand?"

"Angels helping people, big computer thing that processes and grants wishes," Dean begins, getting up and walking around the angel towards his bat. "Right. I got all of that. But it sounds like a hell of a lot of gibberish and bullshit if you ask me. I thought I called a sex line, man, and apparently I didn't." It's then that something dawns on Dean. He was very drunk earlier and his memory, despite the forced ones rehashed in his mind, is still iffy. "Wait. I didn't, we didn't, y'know, _do_ anything, did we?"

The angel tips his head like a bird again, that increasingly familiar look of confusion popping back up. "You were mistaken in your belief. We did not 'do' anything except talk."

Dean sighs in relief as he bends down to retrieve the bat he'd dropped before. He is half-hoping Ellen hadn't heard that bang earlier because he'd been far too surprised and out of it to care if anyone did, including her.

"Dean." The shorter haired man looks up, bat clenched out of reflex. "If you understand what I have said and shown you, would it be possible for you to please make your wish now?"

"Okay, yeah. _Get out_."

"Perhaps I have not made myself clear enough—" Dean feels dizzy when the man is one place then another with the blink of an eye, irritated expression directed right at Dean from mere inches away. "—l cannot leave you until you have made your wish. I am bound by our phonecall."

"Just get out!" Dean practically screams, but manages to keep his voice a more raised angry tone than yelling. He narrows his eyes and puffs his chest to try to be intimidating, but he realizes that is likely moot point with some sort of celestial being from Heaven or wherever this guy's from. Regardless, he doesn't back down. This is _his_ apartment and this angel is getting on the last of his nerves by not listening to his command and by invading his personal space even after telling him not to.

The angel narrows his eyes, huffing air through his nose. It's obvious he's trying to maintain a tone of patience but struggling. "If you would kindly inform me of your wish, then I will. Believe me when I say that I would rather return home as soon as possible. I cannot until you make your wish, however, as, like I have already said, I am bound here by our phonecall."

Dean quirks a brow, finding the "bound here" thing to make just as little sense as everything else the angel has said or shown. "What are you talking ab—?" He is interrupted by the look the angel is giving him, one that is clearly indicating he's not in the mood to explain. "Fine, fine. It's like I said on the phone earlier. I just want someone who can fulfill my needs, okay? Simple as that. Can you do that for me?"

The angel tips his head up a bit as if contemplating the words then lowers it, eyes drifting to look off to the side. "I suppose I could," he begins, "but I would need you to say 'I wish' before the words and focus very hard on what you want to clarify the wish. I reset the machine to be stricter to avoid the incident of last time. Thus, your wish will not take effect in the machine until you say those specific two words prior to it and I am to register it."

Dean rolls his eyes. "Seriously? God, why is this so unnecessarily complicated?"

"Please remember you already broke our branch's machine once," the angel adds, giving Dean a quirked eyebrow look that Dean can't help being amused with. "Since this is an in-person consultation, the machine will pick-up the wish through me and I did not want you to make a mistake."

"Yeah, yeah. Sorry about that, I guess." The older Winchester backs away to give himself some breathing room, because even if this guy doesn't have bad breath it sure as hell doesn't make Dean very comfortable to have him all up in his grill constantly. He glances around the apartment, rethinking his wording to try and be more specific, though all of this is still so weird and new to him. All he knows is that he just wants this guy to leave ASAP, so if doing all this nonsense leads to that then he'll be happy.

"Wait, what do you mean by through you?" Dean inquires, a bit startled at the thought that comes into his mind. "This isn't gonna be some Princess and the Frog type touching, right?"

"The touch I did to your forehead to transfer information directly into your mind. It would be much like that. I also do not trust you to simply make a wish without my explaining all of this. You could have easily given one of your strange remarks and you and I would both be in dresses and dancing with chickens or something."

An eyebrow skyrockets up Dean's forehead, but he's also relieved at the answer. "What?"

The angel lowers his shoulders, head ducking down with a small flush to his cheeks. "I-I could not think of a better example. I simply meant you could make a—"

"Stupid wish I don't really mean just to be a Sass-Master McGee to you?" The angel glances up at him with scrunched eyebrows and Dean can't help actually laughing this time as he places his bat against a wall gently. "I mean, I'd say something dumb just to mess with you and you meant it'd register and cause some weird effect we both don't want. Am I right?"

"Correct."

"Okay, then since we both don't want that and we both want you out of here, let's get this over with the right way. You _will_ leave if I do this, right?"

The angel nods, moving back toward Dean but this time thankfully keeping some distance between them before he lifts a hand to gently place against Dean's forehead. Dean doesn't bother questioning it because of the prior explanation of it being similar to that weird "touch transfer," so instead he closes his eyes and takes a deep breath.

He thinks back to when he and Sam were kids and they'd both always wanted to come across a genie in a bottle during one of their family road trips. The two always snuck out when their parents would get into heated, nasty arguments, exploring whatever area the family had driven to, always hoping in the backs of their minds to stumble across that impossible bottle. Sam had always said he'd wish for their family to be happy, a billion dollars, and a puppy. Then he'd ask what Dean would wish for and Dean would always say the same thing—that he had everything he needed so long as his little brother was by his side. But, of course, a nice car and endless gorgeous chicks wouldn't be off the table either, which would always make Sam laugh.

A smile comes across his lips at the memory. It's not surprising to him that most of his happiest ones are with Sam, specifically when they were very young. He clears his throat, eyes clenched shut. "Uh, so let me try this again." He pauses, taking a deep breath that he intentionally lets out slow. "I wish for—" His mind spins with the memories he'd been thinking about, half-heartedly focusing on some sexy fantasy chick. "—someone to fulfill my deepest needs and desires."

The angel closes his own eyes in focus and Dean feels a certain warmness flood through his veins, something welcoming and gentle much like his mother's hugs would be after he'd fall off the swings at the playground and skin his knee. He lets it in, maybe even _pulls_ at it mentally, body relaxing and thoughts going calm. When he opens his eyes, however, his mouth drops open at the light that's flooding out of the hand pressed against his forehead and his calmness quickly fades. Dean feels his resolve to deny all of this slipping more by the second, and he practically has what he deems a mini heart attack at what's currently happening.

Before he knows it, the light fades and the angel slowly opens his eyes as his hand drops from Dean's forehead. "It is done," he says simply, "and now I will leave you be."

Despite seeing it Dean still doesn't want to believe it. He feels the same as before, no special feeling or epiphany or anything, and his thoughts keep swaying towards the despair he'd been feeling earlier this morning. He figures, if anything, he'd somehow gotten his hopes up that this would bring some amazingly perfect chick into his life right before his eyes to make it all better, so to say he's disappointed is an understatement. Impatience apparent, he rolls his eyes.

"Yeah, okay. Whatever. Thanks for the light show, Houdini. Now let me help you find your way out," Dean murmurs bitterly, walking over to the front door. He goes to pull it open, still believing he'd left it unlocked and that's how this guy got in, but quickly realizes that the angel was telling the truth. The door is locked.

As he flicks the lock to the open side, his peripheral vision catches the angel wandering towards the big mirror in his entryway. "What are you doing?"

"Leaving as you requested. Is there a problem?"

"Uh. Dude, that's a mirror."

"I am aware. Did you not hear me say this is how I came in originally? Or were you too shocked by my presence? Now if you excuse me. It was a pleasure to meet you, Dean Winchester, and best of luck to you in your future endeavors. I sincerely hope the void within you fills with this wish."

Dean is about to argue and say how impossible mirror travel really is when the angel reaches a hand up to place against the reflective glass, which begins to glow a bright white. His eyes widen in horror as the man's body disappears halfway through the surface, the only thing left within moments one of his legs, and Dean is trying extremely hard not to gape but he's gaping and that only makes him feel like more of an idiot than ever. So angels are not only real, but they really can travel through mirrors. Now Dean feels he's seen everything.

Okay, maybe not everything.

Suddenly there is a pause of the leg there, and Dean notices what looks like something wrapping around it, but there is clearly nothing there, at least not to the naked eye. He hears a yelp, startled tone of the angel recognizable, and within seconds it's like he's being dragged out from the mirror, literally kicking and screaming.

"No! No, no, _no_! Please!" And he's begging, voice strained and horse, which only serves to freak Dean out and make him feel a little _bad_ about whatever the heck is happening. "I did it right this time! I made him focus and I did it in person just to be certain! You have to let me come home! _Please_, Yggdrasil, please! Do not do this! I cannot do any more than I already have!"

But it seems no matter the words he's spewing, whomever he's speaking to isn't listening, because with each batch of words, he is pulled further and further back into the room. Dean can see it, the outline of the invisible thing wrapped around the angel. It's tight and thin, like a rope or maybe vine, and it keeps hooking around more of his body by the second until it's around even his arms. Dean watches as it suddenly tugs rougher than it has yet, and the angel is whipped backward until he's on his back on the floor, eyes scrunched shut in pain.

The mirror's glow quickly fades and whatever invisible force hooked around the angel's body slowly seems to recede, the pushed-in marks in his clothing loosening. He just lays there for a while, panting but quiet, breathing shaky and hair a tousled mess. He doesn't bother to open his eyes, perhaps not _wanting_ to, keeping them shut tight. Dean is almost concerned for this bizarre stranger who intruded in his home to begin with, but he'd never admit to it.

Against his better judgment, Dean approaches the man, keeping his voice low and quiet. "Hey, uh, what the hell just happened?" He continues moving until he's only a step away and then slowly crouches down, reaching a hand to maybe help the angel up. "Are you okay?"

In the blink of an eye, the angel's own shoot open, but they glow a bright white making the sapphire blue hues look dull in comparison. This particular light actually hurts to the point that Dean snaps his eyes shut tightly, and he's barely able to recover when the angel jumps up, speaking in a language that Dean has never heard before. He swears it almost sounds _demonic_, like some language you'd hear in a horror movie, and the thoughts only serve to frighten him more.

The rambling goes on and the angel says just two words in English—"System Force"—before he turns to Dean and lunges at him, grabbing his shoulder roughly. Dean falls backward, startled, bracing himself up only by his arms propped against the floor, and he can't help the scream that erupts from his mouth when his upper arm feels like it's caught on fire. A light, just as bright as the one from the angel's eyes, appears underneath the angel's hand, and Dean really doesn't care in the least if Ellen wakes up at this point because this hurts like _crazy_ and there's a lunatic with glowing eyes rambling in some freaky language causing this much _pain_ for him.

It feels like forever has passed when the angel finally goes quiet, though it's only been a couple of minutes. He blinks once and his eyes are normal though lidded in a way that screams worry when combined with the way his eyebrows are. He takes one simple look at Dean before releasing his grip on the man's shoulder and backing away, crawling towards the mirror he'd been ripped from. He turns his body and presses his hands to the glass in a few areas, but he eventually lets them slide down the panel slowly, head and shoulders drooping.

"W-what the hell was that?" Dean barely manages to ask, tone unsteady.

The angel doesn't move for some moments, appearing to simply stare at the mirror. But then he eventually does, turning to stare at Dean with a look that is more than worry, lips parted just a tad. He hesitates to speak, moving a hand over his shoulder and using the other arm to assist in reaching for the center where his spine protrudes. "This… I am stuck," the angel finally says, voice also strained, though Dean figures it's more from emotion than his obsessive rambling.

"What's that supposed to mean? And what the hell language were you speaking in? You sounded and looked like The Exorcist and it scared the living shit out of me. I half-expected your head to start spinning."

The other man's eyes drift downward to the floor. "You have my apologies. I was not trying to frighten you. I was speaking Enochian, the language of my people. And your arm," he pauses very briefly, glancing towards Dean's shoulder then quickly looking back down, "I am also sorry about it."

"Yeah, that hurt like a bitch! What did you do to me?" Dean asks, rubbing his upper arm with his other hand.

"It was not by choice. Yggdrasil was binding us and felt the best way to do so was direct contact through me. So to say I was momentarily possessed would be quite accurate, actually."

"Who the hell is Yagdrizzel?"

"_Yggdrasil_," the angel corrects. "It is the name of the machine I spoke of. It is a, what you humans would call, super-computer. It is kind of like a tree with branches and roots and connects to all of the different offices we use to answer human wishes and prayers, thus what I meant when I said you broke my office's machine. You had caused our particular system to freeze with your wish, unable to process it through to the super-computer."

"What, so it's like the Internet?"

"If that is how you will look at it to understand, then yes. Like the Internet."

Some silence follows those words. Dean continues to rub his arm and looks down at it when he feels raised skin under the cloth of his T-shirt. With a roll of the fabric, his eyes widen. "Is that a goddamn handprint on my goddamn arm?!"

"Oh, I was afraid that would be a side-effect," the angel says, expression apologetic.

"Side-effect?" Dean is struggling to keep from yelling, turning his arm up to get a better look at it. "Is this ugly thing permanent?"

"No, that will fade with time." The angel heaves a heavy sigh before continuing to explain. "The mark, on the other hand…"

"What mark?"

"The one on your chest."

Dean lets go of his sleeve and instead grips the front of his shirt, tugging it down to see for himself what the other man is talking about. A simple black pentagram, specifically with a five-pointed star in the middle, now sits on his chest, some small symbols in each section of the star. Dean doesn't recognize them but quickly puts two and two together. "Is that Enochian? The symbols?"

The other man nods. "There is likely an equivalent one on my spine as I could feel something stinging between my wings."

Now that he's mentioned it, Dean does feel a bit of a sting where the black mark now is, but he was so overwhelmed with the pain in his arm he overlooked it. Dean chooses to ignore the wing comment altogether because not only does he have enough to process and worry about, but he doesn't _see_ any damn wings and doubts he'd be able to anyway even if they are there. He isn't stupid; if some invisible force grabbed this guy and dragged him out of a mirror, who's to say that angels don't have wings simply because humans can't see them?

"So what did you mean by the 'stuck' comment before?" Dean rubs and prods at the mark gently, which looks a hell of a lot like he'd gone to a parlor and gotten a tattoo smack dab over his heart, but attempts to keep his demeanor and voice calm. "And what is this mark?"

A sad expression gets directed his way, maybe sympathy or just a general state of upset at their situation. "It is a binding symbol. The pentagram is meant to 'contain' the different Enochian symbols that equate to the spell. As for my original remark, I cannot leave. I am bound to you by your wish until it is fulfilled."

Dean feels another headache coming on as he directs a bewildered look towards the angel. "Uh, isn't that what you just did?" he asks, letting go of his shirt again.

"I did attempt to, yes. I attempted to register your wish in the machine in order for it to find someone who could actually fulfill it. The machine apparently believes _I_ am suited to do so, however."

"What? What does that even mean? I thought you granted wishes like poof, done. What are we going to do now? I don't want this thing on my chest—it's _weird_."

The angel shifts and curls into a ball, pulling his knees up to his chest and wrapping his arms around them. His chin rests on top, eyes staring blankly at the floor. He's completely spacing out, it seems, because Dean tries to get his attention several times before he actually manages to.

"_Hello_, Earth to angel dude! What do we do to fix this?"

"I suggest we drink copious amounts of alcohol."

Dean practically slaps himself in the face, classical face-palm style. "Dude, no, trust me, that doesn't work. Don't you remember how messed up I was earlier trying to fix a problem that way? What the hell do we do about this?" He notices the other man staring off into space again and snaps his fingers until he's gotten his attention back. "Come on, there's gotta be _something_ we can do to fix this. Then you can go home and I can have my fun and we can pretend like this never happened like we were going to do in the first place."

"Dean, while I do appreciate your optimism, your wish has bound me here," the angel murmurs, tone sounding defeated, "and there is nothing we can do except attempt to fulfill it."

"Well, okay." Dean inches his way over to the other man, hesitantly placing a hand on his shoulder as a sort of means to comfort him. He isn't sure why he feels the need to do so, he just does. Perhaps it's the part of him that Sam rubbed off on; the sympathetic, _nice_ part of him that he likes to pretend doesn't exist with his usual tough guy act. "Then let's go find a strip club and it'll be fine!"

"Dean, your wish was for someone to fulfill your deepest needs and desires."

"And? Strip club would do it. I'm game."

"You clearly do not understand; the machine chose _me_ to do so."

It takes a moment for those words to register in Dean's over-exhausted and overwhelmed brain, but when they do he quickly removes his hand and gives the man a dirty look. "Whoa! Hell no, you're a _guy_! I'm not into guys like that! Your machine is probably broken again; just get someone to fix it."

A sincerely confused look appears on the angel's face as he perks his head up and tilts it a bit. "What does my current form being male have to do with filling the void within your soul?"

"I—what?"

"Your wish." The angel lifts a hand from his knees and jabs Dean in the forehead with it, two fingers prodding, and he doesn't seem to care when Dean shoots him yet another mean glance. "You said you wanted someone to fulfill your _deepest_ needs and desires. Deepest. As in the void within your soul you cannot seem to fill with sexual encounters and booze."

"I _just_ wanted sex, man!" Dean says, slapping the man's hand away. "From some hot chick who also wanted sex! That's the entire reason I even made that dumb wish in the first place! I was lonely and wanted to do the do with a nice lady, not fix my screwed-up soul or whatever. Is that really so hard for your machine to handle?"

The angel's bottom lip pops open a tiny bit and his brows furrow, his arm re-joining the other one around his legs again. He slowly leans his head back down until his chin presses into his knees, eyes locked onto Dean the way a predator's would its prey. It's probably the angriest and annoyed look he's seen since the last time Sam was over. "You thought I was granting you a wish pertaining to your sexual desires for a single night?"

"Uh, duh. I told you I thought I dialed a sex hotline originally, asshat."

"That is _not_ how the machine works, Dean Winchester!" He's a bit surprised when the angel not only snaps at him, but lunges forward and grabs him by the collar of his shirt roughly, the fabric scrunched into his fingers that are balled into fists. "It focuses in on your heart's true desires while making a wish and your heart desires to no longer be lonely above all else! When you made your wish, your thoughts were lost in missing your brother and the happy times you shared. You made a wish that registered on those thoughts. You could easily find someone to have intercourse with given your looks and personality, and the machine recognized that, which is why _this_ meaning behind the words of your wish took priority!"

Dean would be freaked out by the way he's being manhandled and spoken to in his apartment by an unwelcome stranger if not for the sudden anger brewing in the pit of his own stomach. "How the hell do you know what I was thinking about during that wish?! Are you being a creepy bastard and reading my thoughts?! Wouldn't put it past you! Mind your own fucking business! What the hell do you know about my brother and I anyway, huh?! Nothing! Absolutely nothing, so _fuck off_!" He shoves the other man back roughly, not caring about the hurt look he receives and the way the angel lets go of him without a struggle despite proving he was more than a little strong when he'd grabbed Dean's wrist back in the kitchen.

The hurt doesn't last, however, because it is quickly replaced with an equally pissed look as Dean's and then the angel pushes himself to his feet, gripping back onto Dean like he's a ragdoll as he tugs him up as well. "Even though I am fully capable of doing so, I was _not_ reading your mind! I do not care enough about some human _boy_ to dig around in his rotten and selfish mind for old memories! _You_ shared those thoughts with me when you felt my grace! _You_ welcomed my grace in to your body and as a result, your memories passed through it back into me!"

Dean doesn't snap for the 'boy,' 'rotten,' and 'selfish' words, nor does he struggle against or push the angel again, instead quieting down his own voice now shifting to a state of confusion. "Your… what?"

The other man just stares at him for some moments, eyes unreadable as he looks back into Dean's own. He lifts his head up a bit before letting go of Dean's shirt and taking a step back against the wall and, subsequently, the mirror. "My grace." He places his palms against the wall on either side of the glass, shifting his eyes to the floor. "It is, how do you say it? It is our 'powers,' what makes us an angel aside from our true forms. We do not have souls like humans do, we have grace instead."

"Is that…?" And now Dean is curious, unable to stay angry with such a burning inquiry popping up in his mind at a memory from not long ago. "Is that what that warmth I felt during my wish was?"

The angel glances at him for a second with a soft "yes" before he looks down again. "And I am sorry. I did not mean to invade your very personal memories; my intentions were to simply allow the system to process your wish using me as a medium. You pulled my grace in, however, and I was not able to stop it or risk your wish failing to process. I am bound by my duty to fulfill human wishes or I will lose my ranking or even potentially be punished."

"So that was your soul?" Dean quirks a brow. The words that come out of his mouth next seem to flow freely and he isn't even bothered by them like he usually would be. "It felt kinda… nice. Like a hot shower but less sexy."

The angel's eyes widen as a very apparent color appears across his cheeks, quickly and certainly not from rage. He keeps his eyes down and refuses to even exchange a glance with Dean, shoulders lifting and then falling back down. "You enjoyed the feel of my grace?"

Dean's prior lack of caring comes back full force instantly. "Dude! Don't make this creepier than it already is, okay?! I just felt something warm and it felt pretty nice, so I just let it in or whatever. I had no idea it was part of you! I just thought it was an aftereffect of the wish granting!"

"I did not say you were and I did not even accuse you of knowing." The other man seems to regain his composure, head tipping back up. "It is simply a little embarrassing for you to have not only experienced a part of my true form, but to also _enjoy_ it when I hardly know you. It would have been equally embarrassing had you been able to touch and enjoy the feel of my wings. Some humans have the ability to do so."

"Whatever. Just shut up, okay? Shut up and let me figure this out." Dean begins to pace, one hand rubbing the back of his neck while the other rests on a hip. So this all happened because he made a mistake with his wish, right? Because he'd been thinking about Sam during? "Okay, got it!" He whips around and snaps his fingers, then his hands gesture while he speaks. "How about we just revoke it, yeah? I say I didn't mean it and then we can re-do it."

The angel shakes his head. "Wishes can only be fulfilled, not reversed. It is why I thought I had been being careful by taking the necessary precautions with you."

A loud groan echoes around the room. Dean doesn't bother to hide his frustration. "What kind of business do you guys run that doesn't do exchanges?!" he snaps, crossing his arms and leaning against his kitchen's doorframe.

"My apologies. There are forces greater than my own that I cannot control. The machine is one of them. I can reset our branch's computer when it freezes and malfunctions, but when it properly processes a wish and grants it, there is nothing I can do."

"So you're for real when you say you can't leave now? That we're bound until my wish is completely fulfilled? That, somehow, you've got to help do it?"

"Yes," the angel answers after some moments, shoulders slumping once more as he sighs.

Dean rolls his eyes. There have been many times in his life where he's screwed up to a point where he can't simply slap a patch on and call it a night, and this is definitely getting put onto that list. If Sam were here right now he'd be criticizing Dean for not thinking it through more carefully and just focusing instead of letting his mind wander all over the place as per usual; Dean wishes Sam were here right now to do just that.

"All right. I admit defeat for now. Since we're apparently going to be stuck together, can I at least know a little more about you since you seem to know a hell of a lot about me?"

The angel tips his head, eyes shifting from Dean, away, then back to Dean. "I suppose it would not hurt. I am an angel within the 'Guardian and Assistance' branch of the Relief Office of Heaven, Seraph class, unlimited license, specifically tasked in handling humans who are in deep emotional perils. I essentially help watch over humankind."

"So you're where the term 'guardian angel' comes from, huh?"

"You could say that."

Dean isn't as versed in his different religious studies as, say, Sam or Bobby, who both could pinpoint which the different lore and mythos originally come from, but he does recognize that the term 'Seraph' is serious business in any angel mythology. "So are you, like, Nick Fury or something? Top dog?"

"What?"

"You said you're 'Seraph class.' Isn't that the highest?"

"Oh." The angel glances toward Dean's porch door, as if lost in thought for some moments. "In my sphere, yes. It works in a manner of three spheres, so to speak—counselors, first sphere, those who take care of Heavenly and Earthly affairs including the system; governors, second sphere, those who take care of the universal affairs and make sure the cosmos remain in proper order; and warriors, third sphere, those who are specifically trained to fight in order to protect Heaven and, if necessary, Earth. I used to be a common rank in the third sphere, but they felt due to my affections for humankind and mistakes as a warrior, I was better suited in first sphere. Eventually, I was promoted to Seraph class."

"So I pretty much screwed over Heaven by stealing a top-dollar angel." Dean thinks about it for a moment before a large grin perks up his cheeks. "Cool."

The angel, on the other hand, doesn't look very entertained. He frowns and furrows his brows, directing a look Dean's way that emphasizes his tone of voice. "It is not funny, Dean. Now they will have to recruit a lesser experienced individual to help with my responsibilities until I am to return. Why do you find this amusing?"

"Because I can? I don't know what you expect me to say when there's an angel standing in my apartment when just this morning I thought you bastards only existed during Halloween, pigeon feathers and wired halos."

The angel squints at Dean, perhaps intending to shoot a glare his way, but he turns his back to him just as quickly, hands sliding over the glass of the mirror again. He traces some symbols across the surface and then presses a hand against the newly drawn lettering.

"The hell are you doing _now_?"

"I am attempting to see if I still possess my unlimited license for the usage of my powers and whether or not I can return to Heaven even for brief periods of time. I can still feel my connection to Heaven, which means that I have not been completely cut off, if at all. However, it appears the System Force is blocking me from returning even for brief visits."

"System Force?" Dean thinks back to the angel's freak-out earlier when he'd been rambling in Enochian and the only two English words he'd managed to say were those very ones. "You said that before. What is it?"

"It is a program within Yggdrasil that ensures all contracted wishes work out. Apparently it feels I am best suited to stay by your side in order to accomplish this wish."

Quiet drapes over the room as the angel backs away from the mirror with a disappointed demeanor, staring at the object with his arms hanging by his side and shoulders leaning forward. This prompts Dean to consider another curiosity. If he's going to be stuck with this guy for a while, then maybe it'd be best to take Sam's typical route of asking as many questions as possible, especially whenever one immediately pops up in his mind.

"So how come you can travel through mirrors?" he asks.

The angel turns back to face Dean, tipping his head, tone dry. "Are you intentionally ignoring the fact that I am a celestial being from another realm when you ask the more stupid questions of yours? I am an angel; it is standard travel next to flying."

Dean pretends not to be insulted. "So why the human look then?"

"While we have some human features in our true forms, they burn out a regular human's eyes. Few are gifted enough to see our true form or parts of them. Thus, we stay in these forms mostly."

"Okay then," Dean continues, looking unimpressed, "let's see more proof. If I'm gonna deal with all of this weird-ass shit and believe it, give me a matinee of your so-called powers. The lightshows are gettin' old and since you can't show me your true form, I'll settle on something else."

The angel sighs. "I still do not completely understand why what you have seen is not enough, though my assumption is that you are suffering from a state of disbelief due to being overwhelmed. So if you wish for more proof, I have no qualms providing it." He then takes a few steps toward Dean before pausing in place once more. "Tell me, Dean, have you ever wondered what it is like on the moon, to be able to almost 'float' in midair due to the lack of gravity?"

"Uh." His brows furrow and Dean gives the angel a look. "Yeah? But I don't get why that matters—"

"Don't blink."

Naturally, the state of confusion Dean finds himself in after his request is being met with a strange, irrelevant question in regards to his personal curiosities, is colliding with a certain rebellious nature within him rearing its ugly head. Don't blink? He scoffs at the idea and rolls his eyes, settling them back on the other man who's making his way over to him. The very idea of the moon having anything to do with this guy proving himself is beyond Dean.

That is until he blinks and almost stumbles backward into his kitchen.

The angel hops up into the air and then sits, he actually freakin' _sits_ in midair as if there's an invisible high stool propping him up and Dean's jaw drops like straight out of a cartoon. Well, okay, maybe not to _that_ extent, but still. There is a man now floating in the air in the middle of his hallway and Dean begins to regret even bothering to ask for more proof if all it's going to do is give him what feel like mini heart attacks. Dean feels his entire body clench up in disbelief for what feels like the millionth time today and he uses the doorframe as support.

"Is this proof enough?" the angel asks, crossing his legs and resting his hands in his lap.

Dean laughs. He can't help it; he just starts laughing like he's going insane as something clicks inside of his mind. "Oh, man," he spits out, laughter between sentences. "So that explains everything. Why when Sam would pray he'd never get anything in return. Because the guy up there I never and still don't believe in isn't calling the shots. It's a bunch of asshats entering data into a _computer_." By the time he's finished with those words, his laughter has stopped and he's sighing in disbelief.

The angel tips his head in that birdlike manner that he does, brows furrowing and mouth shaping into a deeper frown. Dean can't tell if he's offended or sympathetic. "What do you expect when there are so many of you and so many trivial wishes?"

"Sam's weren't trivial!" Dean snaps. "He prayed like, every night, for the _same damn thing_. He just wanted our parents to get along and be happy. He just wanted _all_ of us to be happy. But now it's a little late for that when our mom is six feet under and our dad is God-knows-where probably drinking himself into a coma."

This time the angel's expression is clear and he looks toward the floor, tone softening. "My apologies. I did not mean your brother's prayers were trivial. I simply meant so many prayers generally are; they are for unnecessary things."

Dean is about to say something rude, such as how he doesn't need his pity or an explanation, but his phone starts blaring his ringtone before he can say a word. He walks past the angel silently and over to the red throw rug, looking around until he finds his phone. Speak of the devil. 'Incoming Call – Sam,' it reads. One look at the screen and Dean is smiling softly, though he opts not to pick it up right now. He sets the phone down onto his side table and turns around, met with blue eyes catching his own and staring directly into them.

"Are you not going to pick that up? It could be important."

"Dude, you have seriously got to stop doing that."

"Doing what?"

"Appearing in front of me like six inches away. It's creepy and invades my space. We've been over this."

"My apologies. I will try to remember that."

Dean shifts and flops down onto his couch, leaning against the back with an exaggerated sigh. His hands rest on his thighs as he stares at one of his walls with a blank look. None of this makes sense to him and only serves as a painful reminder that his entire world has been tipped upside down, invaded by things he'd rather not deal with. Then there's Sam, who will wonder and wonder what is wrong, but Dean will never be able tell to him because that would be a one-way ticket to a psychiatric facility and limited phone calls.

Dean feels the couch bow from the weight of another and he doesn't need to look to know it's the angel who's now sitting next to him, except that he's probably not sitting as casually. When Dean does take a glance, he sees he's right; the man is leaning forward with his arms draped across his thighs, hands together and fingers crossed, his eyes unreadable as he stares at the rug. If Dean didn't know any better he'd think he was hanging out with an old friend or something.

"I must be going crazy."

The angel's eyes shift to the same wall Dean is again looking at. "I assure you, you are not. Though I understand how all of this can be overwhelming."

"Dude, I'm so screwed."

"What are you so afraid of?" Dean whips his head to look at the sapphire hues now directed at him. "I too am not fond of our situation, but the System Force is absolute and we have no choice but to go along with this until your wish is fulfilled." He doesn't take his eyes off of Dean, but there's something soft that appears there, vulnerable, maybe even distressed, and Dean can't even begin to fathom what's going through the angel's mind. "I will not hurt you; I simply want to go home. So since it would be in both our best interests, I would appreciate it if we cooperated with one another."

Dean sighs in defeat through his nose. "All right." He gently backhands the other man's arm in an attempt to be friendly. "So if I'm gonna do that, I at least need a name."

The angel's eyes glance at Dean's hand, perhaps confused about the gesture, then back to him. "I suppose it was rude of me not to introduce myself before." He straightens his back, not removing his eyes from Dean. "I am Castiel, angel of Thursday. And as according to Yggdrasil, I will be the one who will grip you tight and raise you from your perdition."

xxx

The strangled squeak of a damaged lift support for a trunk lid is the only noise audible over the dozens of people shouting to one another and eagerly packing up for the summer. Sam heaves a heavy box of books and multimedia up into the trunk with ease, sliding it next to another box filled with clothes. The constant chatter and image of people moving things from the building are welcome occurrences because it's so _normal_, something he'd longed for since before he'd come to college.

As he lifts his phone from his pocket to check for any messages, slender arms reach up and hook around his shoulders from behind. "Hey, babe, done packing?" A woman's voice, soft and sweet, quickly turns concerned as she peeks around the man's shoulder. "What's wrong? I know that face."

"Sorry for spacing, Jess. I'm just worried about Dean. I haven't heard from him since yesterday and he never responded to my voicemail. He usually sends me at least a text."

The younger Winchester's fiancée rolls her eyes and lets go, moving around him until she's sitting cross-legged on the trunk edge. "You two are too attached at the hip sometimes. Look, he works as a mechanic, right? He probably just got really busy and was too tired or distracted to respond to your call. Give him time and he'll get back to you today, I'm sure of it. Remember _you_ said he can be kind of forgetful when he's distracted with things."

"Yeah, but I texted him at least ten times as well and nothing. What if something is really wrong? Dean's usually a chatterbox and he was so weird on the phone yesterday morning."

"Sam."

Green eyes meet twinkling blues as the only 5-inch shorter woman gives him a teasing grin. "Okay, okay, fine. You're right. I'm overreacting. But can you blame me? He doesn't do so well living on his own. Depression or something. And well, I get weird 'feelings' and have weird dreams, you know that." He emphasizes the last words and Jess rolls her eyes yet again.

"Sam, he's been on his own for two years now." However, just as quickly her annoyance fades as she notices the sincere look of concern on Sam's face, and perhaps due to her empathetic and sympathetic nature, she sighs in defeat. "Look, if you're so worried about him, why don't we go back to your hometown for the summer? It's the first time you've taken a summer off and you've worked so hard, so you should enjoy it before law school."

Sam probably doesn't notice the ecstatic glow to his face at her suggestion because he can't see himself, but Jess certainly does and she can't help the silly smile from replacing her previous facial expression. The man turns then sits next to her, practically beaming. "Are you serious? For real? You wouldn't mind?"

"You are too adorable for me to resist. Besides, I have a friend next town over, remember? I can stay with her, and you and I can still see each other whenever we want."

Sam almost tackles her to the ground as he lunges and pulls her into a hug so tight she squeaks, but there is a warm sincerity in her eyes as he pulls back and they both exchange glances. "God, you're a genius and so patient. What would I do without you?" Sam asks, a hand sliding over one of Jess' own.

"I don't know. Maybe you'd be lost and unable to get by?" She chuckles and pats him on a shoulder. "Now give Dean another call. Let him know we'll be up."

With a peck on the lips, Jess stands and heads back toward the dorms, telling him she's going to have a quick chat with an old friend. Sam shifts his arm to look at his phone again, sliding through until he's reached his contacts. He quietly looks at Dean's name for a moment before glancing up and around at the life he's established for himself since leaving home. He remembers how only a year after he left Dean said their father suddenly vanished, leaving only a note—"I'm sorry; I'll be traveling for a while." He still feels a small pinch of guilt at _how_ he'd left home, because he knows he could've certainly left without fighting with his dad one last time for both Dean's and their father's sake, but he knows in the end it was for the best either way.

He takes one last look up towards the window of his old dorm and taps the call button near Dean's name. After some moments, it goes to voicemail like before. "Hey, Dean. It's Sam. Not sure if you got my other messages yesterday, but I thought I'd leave you another regardless. I hope you didn't fall asleep drunk in the bathtub again; you know you worry me when you do that since I'm so far away I can't help you. Anyway, I just wanted to let you know I decided to take a semester off this time and surprise! I'm coming home for the summer this time. I hope you haven't turned your apartment into a dump again. Take care and talk to you later hopefully. Bye."


	3. Ah! Work, Home, and an Angel!

A/N: I am so sorry for the sudden unexpected hiatus. I had a lot going on all at once, so I made a decision to put my fics aside while catching up. Not to worry though, I'm back on track now! Here's the chapter a few days before the usual update day just because I was gone for so long. I'm planning to update Apparitions earlier than usual too. Enjoy!

Disclaimer: I don't own Supernatural or Oh! My Goddess, nor any of the characters from SPN. I don't make money off of this story.

**Updates every two weeks on Mondays. I'm not sure of the chapter count because I always write more than I expect to from my outlines.**

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**Ah! My Angel  
_Chapter 3 Ah! Work, Home, and an Angel!_**

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To say he's been having nightmares lately would be the understatement of the century.

Dean would wake up, having flinched into consciousness, eyes staring into the darkness at his ceiling seeing nothing but everything at the same time. He'd scrub at his eyes until it hurt and take deep breaths. Often times he'd even reach for his phone to call Sam but would stop himself before he could actually touch the device. Sam had a life now and couldn't be bothered with petty things like Dean wanting to talk after a bad dream.

So because he still needed to get it out of his system somehow, he'd get up. He'd walk to the fridge, pull out a beer, then plop down on his couch and watch infomercials before he passed out in an awkward and often uncomfortable position. That was just how things had to be. Dean had no other way of dealing with the images that would corrupt and flood his mind after a hellish nightmare.

But this time, this _particular_ time when he can't even remotely remember when he'd managed to crawl into bed and pass out, is different. This nightmare is unlike any he's had before and he's almost grateful for it if not for the fact that, well, it's a nightmare.

When he "opens" his eyes, he sees a long hallway, huge, tall, and purely white, looking as though people have been scrubbing the walls with bleach every hour. There's a single red door at the end that stands out among the many white that line the walls. Regardless of the number of horror movies he's seen, he still feels a striking urge to go to that one red door.

And so he does, trudging across the floor with a heaviness to his legs that he's not used to, eyes narrowing in on the door and noticing the small glass knob shaped with prisms. He lifts a hand to grip it, twisting slow and uncertain, when his ears are assaulted with a single scream. It sounds muffled by the wood, but he rips the door open without care for what he may be greeted with on the other side anyway. After all, he's always had this vigilante hero side to him thanks to growing up with Batman comics lining his bookshelf.

What Dean sees when he steps through isn't at all what he'd expected—but really, what _did_ he expect? His mind draws a blank as he stares at a single figure curled into the fetal position in the middle of the room, their sobs bouncing off the tall walls and ceiling. They're the only other person, the only other _thing_ in this tall white room aside from Dean. A prickling sensation runs down his spine, but he approaches the other figure anyway.

The sobbing is quiet, but, being that it's the only other noise in the room, sounds loud. Dean can't even hear his own footsteps as he walks, and even the door closing behind him lacks the slightest of noises.

He tries to speak-up to ask who the person is and if they're all right once he's by their side. He really does try. Nothing, there's nothing coming out of his mouth. It's like his vocal chords are broken and mangled because there's a soreness to his throat and the taste of blood is stuck on his tongue. It's even a struggle when Dean forces his body down to place a hand on the stranger's shoulder gently in lieu of his lack of a voice.

Anxiety pools in the pit of his stomach when the sobbing ceases instantly and bright blue eyes stare him down like he's a predator. Dean swallows once before letting go. He stands and attempts to back away, however, just as quickly a hand flies up and grabs his wrist with force. The figure uses him as support for getting up, arms hooking over his shoulders the moment they're on even level.

With the other person so close, Dean can clearly see the tear streaks decorating his cheeks. There's a certain smell too, a sweet scent like lavender mixed with fruit; he can't entirely put a finger on it. As the figure leans in closer and practically _hugs_ him, clinging on in a manner that can only scream desperation, the scent tingles his nose.

"Please help me." The words cause Dean's stomach to drop, but he can't speak himself. With no way of responding, he just pets the stranger's back lightly and receives fingers clawing into his shoulder blades. "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry."

The walls come crashing down around them and Dean quickly realizes the nature of this dream, that it's different but definitely on par with the others. His nostrils are violated with a stinging smell that quickly overrides the pleasant one, strong and rotten, taking over with ease. The figure is sobbing into his shoulder now, but the wetness of that is not nearly as uncomfortable as the one he feels coating his fingertips.

Dean catches his breath when he lifts his hand. He'd recognize that liquid anywhere—its thick consistency and hideous odor is enough of a giveaway to anyone with a functioning mind. The question that is left unasked is answered just as soon as it is thought of. Dean's eyes catch on enormous clusters of feathers, soaked in the same fluid that sticks to his fingers, and his mouth drops open in a gape.

Those are _wings_. Those are big, white, blood-stained wings, and their broken, mangled state leaves Dean feeling sick and confused at the same time. The figure clinging to him winces before its grip loosens. Suddenly it collapses, arms slipping from Dean's shoulders and tumbling into a pile of limbs.

Dean can't breathe. His chest feels tight and his lungs cease up, heart pacing at a rate inhuman. He stumbles backward, barely able to keep on his feet, and all at once he's assaulted with the strong urge to throw up, run like hell, and break down crying. There are no words, even if he could speak, that would make this right. There are no words that would make him feel even remotely better with a scene like this in front of him.

He tries to scream, but as expected, there's no sound. He tries to move, but his legs are too heavy now. His entire body suddenly feels too heavy, the pressure of gravity weighing down on him like a ton of bricks. So he does the only thing he _can_ do—he lets gravity win.

What should've been a sharp pain from hitting the ground is instead a warmth and softness. Dean is greeted with a bright light clawing at his eyes and he forces them to focus. The blurriness as they adjust is quickly replaced with the form of a man hanging over him, curious sapphire blues staring down at him with concern mixed in as well. It takes only a moment for the color to drain from Dean's face.

He lunges up and startles the other man, hands gripping his shoulders and forcing his body to turn so Dean can get a good look at his back. What he finds is the pristine back of a suit jacket.

"W-what are you doing?" Castiel's eyes are wide when he finally speaks up, concern replaced with bewilderment.

"A hallway and a room," Dean sputters, voice lined with apology as he lets go and presses his back against his wall, "all white. Too white. And wings, big ones. Bloody and super fucked up. I—shit, that was one seriously messed-up dream."

Castiel simply stares at Dean for some moments, eyes narrowing but not in anger. Instead his head is tipping as if he's processing Dean's words, and he eventually leans forward to look Dean in the eyes up close. "But you're awake now. You're okay."

Despite himself, Dean laughs. "Are you using contractions suddenly? You're so freaking weird."

The angel doesn't move from his place and his head tilts yet again. After some seconds, his eyes roll down, brows furrowing. "I heard you use them quite a bit and I figured I'd seem more 'human' if I did so as well. Since I'm bound here, I might as well learn your ways."

"Didn't your parents ever have the talk with you about fitting in?"

"No. There is a talk for that? What should I know?"

Dean's mouth opens as if to speak, but instead he starts laughing again, this time long and loud. "Oh my God. You're serious? You're actually serious," Dean manages to utter through laughs.

"Of course I'm serious." Castiel looks up again, focusing on Dean's eyes. "Why wouldn't I be?"

Dean rolls his eyes, pressing an arm into his mattress to shift his body weight back up straight against the wall he'd been slipping down. He takes a deep breath that he slowly lets out through his nose as he shuts his eyes. His mind is still reeling from that bizarre nightmare, but he's feeling a little better after being able to interact with another human being. Well, not _quite_ human, but close.

When Dean's eyes tiredly flick back open, he finds an opposite pair a bit too close for the umpteenth time now. It's not too late to speak-up, is it? "Dude. Personal space, remember?"

Castiel bows his head in apology and backs away, sliding his legs so they drape off the side of Dean's bed. "My apologies. I hope you at least had a decent rest despite your bad dream. You are a little heavier than you look." The last comment sparks Dean's rapt attention.

"Wait. _You_ put me to bed?" Dean feels a bit of discomfort grabbing at his stomach, though he believes it's more than simply disliking a stranger handling him. "I don't even remember being sleepy."

"Well, I assisted you. You seemed exhausted, confused, and overwhelmed, so I wanted to help you sleep a little more. It's a simple thing for me to do." The angel lifts a hand and gestures with two fingers.

Oh. So _that's_ why he's feeling uncomfortable. Dean shoots the other man a sharp glare. Violation seeps into his bones when he remembers the first time Castiel used his angel mojo on him. The force of thoughts into his head, memories and things he hadn't even known, wasn't something he liked or wanted.

"Dude, no." It's hard to hold back from snapping, but Dean manages to do so with great restraint. "Helping me get into my bed is one thing, but forcing me to sleep is another entirely. It's creepy and violating. Don't do it again unless I ask you to. Capice?"

A brief flash of something, maybe guilt or remorse, runs through Castiel's eyes when he looks up into Dean's before he turns his entire head to look away. "Yeah. I capice."

Dean doesn't bother trying to hide the small, amused smirk that perks up the corners of his cheeks. For some reason, he can't seem to stay mad at this guy. Maybe it's that childlike ignorance with how he says things like "I capice" or perhaps it's even the way his body language works, all birdlike with big blue eyed looks. Whatever the case, he's easily able to let go of his prior emotions and move right along.

Dragging himself out of bed proves to be harder than it usually is. With his head pounding from yesterday's drinking spree and mind still raw from emotions regarding Sam and that nightmare, Dean wants nothing more than to curl back up under the covers. But being that he has work today, it's only ten minutes before his usual alarm, and he is in desperate need of a distraction Dean doesn't bother fighting it.

He trudges to his shower with a slouch to his body, not even caring about the way the angel watches his every move with curiosity and confusion. Castiel, despite interacting with other humans before, likely hasn't stayed on Earth for long, Dean guesses. So when his eyes follow after Dean even when he begins to close the bathroom door, Dean isn't surprised.

"Stay there, Cas. Don't want you seeing things you shouldn't see. None of that mirror travel bullshit. Ignorance is bliss or whatever," he mutters, flicking the lock shut. One thing about this place he's grateful for is the lock on his bathroom door. He's especially grateful for it being that there's a stranger here.

Dean spends longer in the shower than usual. He takes his time cleaning himself and scrubbing his hair, metaphorically attempting to wash off all of the emotional crap from the day before as well. For a while Dean even lets the water just run over him as he keeps his eyes shut. It's surprisingly still very soothing despite everything and he enjoys it as long as his schedule will allow.

When he does finally finish and comes out, one towel slung over his shoulder and another around his waist, he finds his room empty. And despite his annoyance at the angel not listening, he's a bit grateful. After all, who'd want to get dressed in front of a complete stranger, particularly one who's not even human but merely looks the part?

Dean's as quick as ever to fix himself up. He already shaved the moment he got out of the shower and it never takes him long to throw on a pair of boxers, socks, loose jeans, and a work t-shirt. And despite his headache, he manages to drag himself back into the bathroom, slick his hair up and scrub his teeth, then wander into the kitchen. Speak of the devil—or well, angel in this case.

Castiel is sitting at the small table leaning against the wall between his kitchen and living room, and Dean's phone is being jabbed at in his hands. The angel's eyes are glued to the screen as he plays with the device and Dean watches for a moment before storming over and snatching it from his hands.

"You seriously don't even know not to touch things that aren't yours without asking?" Dean says, quickly making sure nothing was screwed up during the angel's "playtime."

Castiel turns to look at him and folds his hands over the table. "Your smartphones, they're fascinating. We have no need for them in Heaven, but I can see their significance here on Earth. They're very useful." There's a small smile turning the corners of his cheeks and it's actually kind of cute, but Dean does his best to ignore it or risk his macho status with a dumb comment.

As Dean makes himself a toasted bagel and pulls out the cheap off-brand cream cheese from his fridge, he hears Castiel speak-up once more. "Where are you going?" Dean turns around and glances over at the bag he'd dragged out with him and plopped against the front doorframe.

"I've got work. You know, the thing adult humans do to support themselves financially." Dean shuts the fridge, gets a butter knife from a drawer, snatches his bagel from the toaster (but not without hissing a curse under his breath about how hot it is), and then collapses into a seat at his table opposite of Castiel.

"Oh." Castiel leans in a bit, eyes fixed on Dean's. "May I come with you?"

To say Dean is surprised by Castiel's question is an understatement. He practically chokes on his bagel and has to calm his coughing fit before he can muster up a response.

"Dude, no way," Dean gets out between several coughs. "You stay here."

Silence follows and Castiel pulls back, and if Dean wasn't focusing more on finishing his bagel than paying attention to the angel, he'd say there was an actual pout across his lips briefly. "What am I supposed to do while you're gone then?"

Dean rolls his eyes. Was this guy intentionally being annoying at this point or was this just his personality? "Look, just watch TV or something. I've got cable for a reason." Dean gestures towards his TV and Castiel frowns.

"I'm nervous being here alone. I'm not sure of anything."

"You'll be fine. Just don't open the door for anyone."

Dean shoves the last of his bagel into his mouth and stands, tossing the cream cheese back into the fridge on his way over towards the front door. He puts on his work boots, hopping around as he slips them on, and his eyes flick over to Castiel who's practically sulking. "It's not that bad, dude, trust me. I'll help you find a hobby later even."

Castiel doesn't seem convinced. His expression reflects disbelief in Dean's words and the mechanic figures he's not going to have enough time to make him think otherwise for now. "Shit, man. I'm gonna be late. I gotta go, but remember, don't open the door for anyone. I've got my own keys and if I need help getting in, I'd speak up on that buzzer over there. Oh, and Cas?"

"Yes?"

"Don't ever do that touch transfer and memory thing again without my consent. It's creepy and a little violating, just like the forcing me to sleep thing."

Dean doesn't give Castiel the chance to say another word because he's rushing out the door and slamming it shut behind him. He locks it then shoves his keys into his bag before scrambling down the stairs and out of the building.

Castiel perks up, sliding his legs around on the chair then standing. He finds himself at the large sliding glass doors that lead out onto Dean's small porch, peering out the blinds with weary eyes and watching Dean drive off. He figures this is how a cat or dog feels when they watch their pet parents drive off to go somewhere, be it work, shopping, or anything really. It's a little lonely, a little scary, perhaps even more than a little _boring_.

Castiel can't remember the last time he felt boredom settling in. He's always had someone to talk to and that was enough for him. But with Dean suddenly rushing out of the small apartment to go do the human variation of a job, Castiel finds himself already recalling what being bored is like.

Well, since Dean's gone, he might as well do _something_.

Castiel peers around the apartment until his eyes settle on the laptop gracing a small desk at the other end of the living room. Dean had said not to touch anything without asking, but Castiel can't help wanting to use anything familiar. A computer is something he'd use on a regular basis and he's quickly becoming desperate for _something_ to make him feel a tad more comfortable here.

In only a moment he's sitting at the desk next, hand lifting the screen ever-so-slowly, cautious of breaking it. Human computers certainly aren't as sturdy as their's and he refuses to give Dean the satisfaction of busting him on breaking his rule. Curiosity spikes when light pours out between the keyboard and screen. He lifts it only a few inches and Castiel furrows his brow at the obviously still on computer before he lifts the screen up all the way.

Okay, maybe he _should've_ listened to Dean. Just this time anyway. His eyes are assaulted with large-breasted women, some half-naked and some completely nude, and there's even a live video cam playing off to the left with two women doing _very_ personal things.

Castiel's cheeks darken and he barely stops himself from slamming the screen back down. He whips it downward most of the way, then gently closes the remaining. _Humans_.

A deep breath and several fast blinks later and he's off to sit on Dean's couch, following his initial suggestion of watching TV. Castiel has never watched television before. How does one even operate this device? What is the purpose exactly? His mind is swamped with questions no one is there to answer.

He shifts his body to get a better look, not realizing that his leg is digging into the remote discarded onto one of the couch cushions. When the TV pops on and he jumps back, he puts two and two together and lifts his leg to look at the remote with curiosity. Oh, he's seen these before. Humans use them to operate devices from afar all of the time.

That doesn't, however, mean he knows how to _use_ one.

A frown promptly plants itself on Castiel's face as he fiddles with the remote. There are so many buttons, too many buttons that he doesn't understand the point of, but he figures the "CH^" is something along the lines of "Channel Up" and presses it. In fact, he keeps pressing it. He presses it until something catches his eye, something as silly as an infomercial, but he likes what he sees as the woman on the screen advertises a new electric fireplace.

Something strikes Castiel suddenly. He's stuck here and doesn't know much about human customs despite coming to Earth so many times. This TV—the purpose is becoming very clear with its convenient way to display information. Maybe, just maybe, he could learn a thing or two about humans. He presses the button on the remote again and comes to a channel about cooking.

Perhaps he won't be so bored after all.

Dean, on the other hand, needn't worry about boredom or figuring out what to do. As time goes by the shop is swamped thanks to a horrible pothole claiming victims one after another. There'd been an accident earlier that day and a heavy drill came crashing off a truck. Dean was grateful that Bobby understood when he was twenty minutes late.

He's half-way under a car doing a repair when Bobby walks in, kicking at Dean's foot to get his attention. "We all know about the accident down the road, but that doesn't explain why you look like you were involved."

Dean rolls out from underneath and gives Bobby a weak smile. "I had a long night."

"By long night do you mean one too many beers and a couple of hard ones?" Bobby asks and Dean chuckles.

"You read me like a book."

"Somebody's got to since Sam's been away. Can't have you gettin' into trouble, y'idjit."

Bobby walks around the car and over to a workbench, digging around in a drawer until he's found a wrench. Dean's prayers for Bobby to just drop it there seem to go completely unanswered.

"You sure that's all? I know you and your hangovers, boy, and this? This is beyond that," he says, pausing at the doorway that leads outside.

Dean sighs. How in the hell could he even begin to explain everything that happened yesterday and last night to Bobby without looking like he's just escaped from a Looney Tunes cartoon or Chuck Palahniuk novel? If not even Sam would likely believe all that happened, how would it be fair of Dean to expect Bobby to? Bobby was, and still is, like a father to him, and Dean doesn't want to risk screwing that up with an unbelievable truth.

Just when Bobby is about to make another comment, Garth comes barging in waving around a piece of paper with a grin the size of Kansas on his face. "Guys, I found out the date of the fireworks! They've been posting these up around town!" he yells, not caring that a couple of customers are waiting impatiently by the front desk.

Bobby promptly smacks Garth on the back of the head. The younger man gives a small utterance of pain, but Bobby doesn't seem to have any sympathy. "Get back to work, y'idjit. We've got cars backing up thanks to that nasty new pothole down by the town square." Bobby shoves Garth back towards the front desk and gives Dean a look before disappearing beyond the wall.

Dean slides back under the car to work, but his mind wanders off in a completely different direction, memories taking over his train of thought.

The fireworks were some of the best times of his life; the little carnival and Sam's stupid grins whenever he beat Dean with the side games, Bobby joining them and giving them a little extra money for greasy treats, and of course, the rides that the Winchester boys would go on over and over until their necks hurt and at least one of them ended up with their head over a trash barrel.

Best of all, though, were the fireworks themselves. Dean and Sam would sit so close they'd have to dodge remnants. They'd made a game out of it after so many years and Dean fondly remembers the one year the back of his pants caught fire. Sam had called him a "flaming ass" for the next several weeks after that whenever Dean would tease him.

Certainly to most people that doesn't exactly sound like the most amazing of times, but to Dean they most definitely were. It was when Sam and he were their happiest despite everything going on at home, and when the boys could pretend they were normal teenagers for even just a day. Sam probably enjoyed that part more than him, but Dean couldn't deny it was pretty nice for him too.

As Dean tightens a part of the car, he wonders if Sam will ever go with him to that little fair again. But even when the sad thoughts try to take over again, the tiny little terrors that enjoy reminding him of his brother's inevitable marriage, Dean is overwhelmed with warm memories. He smiles as he finishes.

x

Certainly the saying doesn't only apply to when you're having fun. Dean's day flies by and when he looks up at the clock finally it's already 5:30. He wipes his hands with an old rag, adding to the grease and grim caked up on it, and heads through the doorway towards the front desk. He's about to clean up the desk and switch the front sign to closed, but the jingle of the big bell Bobby hung from the door goes off.

Always customer-service friendly Dean decides to comment after picking up some stray papers. "We're actually closing in a bit, but can I help you?"

Two strangers walk through the door in silence, one man, one woman. The man's skin is dark, while the woman's is light and pale. They're both dressed in pristine business suits that strike Dean in an oddly familiar way.

For some moments the two look around with blank expressions, not even the slightest hint of emotion present, before their vision focuses in on Dean. Okay, like that isn't freaky.

"Hello. Maybe you can. Uriel, would you please wait outside for now? I'll be all right and can handle this one." If that doesn't win for most bizarre name of the day, Dean doesn't know what will.

The man gives a stern look to the woman, something strange in his gaze, but he doesn't argue with her and instead steps back outside the door. For a moment Dean almost believes he's her boyfriend or something. As she comes up to the desk, all smiles and sunshine suddenly, it quickly becomes obvious he's mistaken.

"We're a couple of co-workers surveying the area for strange, possibly paranormal related occurrences around town last night," the woman explains, her fiercely red hair becoming very apparent in the more proper lighting above the desk. "Did you happen to have electrical issues yesterday? Any static on the television or maybe whistling noises? Lights going out randomly even?"

Her questions bring a headache on for Dean who feels like, yes, she's right. Yes, some freaky stuff did happen yesterday at his apartment that sounds a heck of a lot like that. But for whatever reason, he feels this strong urge to lie, something protective creeping up in the back of his mind. So he does.

"Uhh, maybe. I don't know for sure. I was kind of shit-faced yesterday." The redhead laughs briefly, and Dean grins. Okay, so maybe it isn't exactly a lie. "But damn, I wasn't aware they were hiring such hot chicks at those places. Where'd you say you worked again?"

The woman's humorous expression shifts into one of surprise, but she's just as quickly back to smiling. "Oh. The Third Sphere Paranormal Society."

"Huh, I don't think I've heard of that place before."

"I'm not surprised, really. We're new."

There's something eerily familiar about the name of the place this woman claims to work at, much like the feeling he got at both of their outfits and initial mannerisms, but Dean swears he's never heard of it before. He begins to feel more unease by the second, though doesn't want to shoo the woman off. After all, Bobby would kill him for being so rude.

The redhead's eyes trail down Dean's face to his chest, and a small smirk replaces her previous smile. "That's a lovely tattoo," she says, eyes meeting Dean's once more.

"Huh?" Dean glances down at himself and mentally curses. During the later hours of the day it becomes so hot that Dean often changes into a tank top and this day was no different. The curved, low-cut shape reveals the black mark Castiel had explained about before, the one that binds them through his wish. "Oh, uh, you think so?"

"Hmm, yes, absolutely. Did you take random Enochian that looked good or are you aware of the meanings?" Dean's taken aback by the comment. Not only is this random chick kind of hot, but she's well-versed in mythology too? Well-versed hot nerd chicks always score high on Dean's "hell yeah" meter.

"Wait, you know what this is?"

"Yes. I know my angelic lore quite well. Those are binding symbols. Usually people only get such markings when they're professing their love for someone, romantically or otherwise. Did you know that?"

Dean feels a pinch in his stomach. "W-well, duh. I mean, I got the thing put on! Not randomly either. Ha, ha."

"Naturally. I didn't take you as the random type. Well, if you excuse me, I must carry on with my interviews." A wicked gleam flashes over the woman's eyes that Dean isn't sure of the reasons behind. She turns to leave and his nature takes over, doing anything he can think of to get her to stay a bit longer.

"Wait, uh. You know, I do remember some weird things like you described."

"Oh?" The woman pauses in place and peers over her shoulder.

"Yeah, but it's kind of vague. Like I said, I was pretty smashed." Something is eating at Dean, making him feel bad like he's betraying someone. Sometimes he really wants to take his brain out, shake it up real good, then slam it back in.

The man that was with the woman, Uriel, opens up the front door and peeks inside. The woman exchanges glances with him before turning back to Dean and handing him a card with a phone number on it. "Well, I believe that's enough for now. Why don't you give me a call if things become clearer, uh—?"

"Dean. Dean Winchester," he responds, taking the piece of paper and briefly looking at the number across it. "And you are? There's no name on here."

Wide eyes direct at him. "I'm Anna—" Her eyes flick off to different areas within the shop, but Dean hardly notices. "Milton. I'm sure we'll be seeing each other again real soon regardless, Dean. It was nice to meet and talk with you."

The woman flashes him one last smile before hurrying out the door, her co-worker shooting Dean a hard glare that he feels he didn't deserve. Hey, he was perfectly gentlemanly despite how smoking that Anna chick is. What's that guy's deal?

Dean doesn't even bother to question the abnormalities about their encounter as he closes up shop for Bobby. He's far too busy peeking at the card every so often and grinning to himself like he's a damn high schooler excited about scoring the hottest babe for prom. Anna Milton, huh? Dean certainly wouldn't mind running into her again, that's for sure.

x

In the meantime while Dean is busy acting like an overly hormonal teenager during closing, Castiel is sitting propped up on the Winchester's couch, legs crossed on top of the cushions and hands in his lap. He's been watching some program about human psychology for the past hour and is more than fascinated by what he's learning. He had no idea, after all, that humans make most of their decisions unconsciously.

There's something simple and different about human entertainment he finds himself quickly adapting to as time passes. Television is such a simple way to learn facts quickly. Then there's the Internet, though with his ignorance he'd rather not accidentally see something on the more private side again.

Just as he's getting into a documentary about serial killers, his entire body clenches up. Castiel recognizes the high-pitched whistle coming through the speakers almost instantly, which is accompanied by static taking over the screen here and there. An eyebrow lifts as his body follow and Castiel heads straight towards the porch.

If he never knew what regret felt like fully before, now he does. Castiel's eyes stare straight down at the two figures standing below. Anna and Uriel. What in the Heavens are they doing here? Certainly this isn't about—

Castiel doesn't remember the last time he felt dread like this. It's an unpleasant emotion, deep in one's gut, pulling and wrenching until he's feeling a little physically ill, and he can't even begin to fathom how to feel better. Anna and Uriel are here and typically they only tag along when things get on the more messy side.

Castiel is used to being the sort of "troublemaker" among his brothers, breaking rules in order to assist others and messing things up as a result, so he acts on the first thing that comes to mind—he ducks and hides.

Punishment is the last thing he needs right now. He already feels weary about being forced to live with a human on Earth. Getting his rank stripped, his powers limited, or worse yet, being sentenced to the torture chambers is not something he can tolerate.

Luckily for him, it turns out extreme wishes like this can mask his presence from other angels. And while Castiel would typically consider that fact a dreadful thing, he's grateful in the moment. This is especially true being that he can still put his exaggerated hearing to good use.

"Do you really think it's true?" Uriel's voice is as deep and foreboding as ever and it doesn't make Castiel feel much better. "Do you really think he is meta-bound to a human?"

For some moments, Anna stares around, silent, though she's fairly quick to speak-up. "I'm afraid that's what's recorded in the system."

Castiel can feel his heart speed up. Oh, heavens, they know. They _know_. The system, despite its malfunctions, recorded the wish well this time and now likely all of Heaven truly does know.

"We will have to find him to confirm it however," Anna adds after some seconds with her typical stoic nature.

Uriel, on the other hand, seems the opposite. His eyes roll and he crosses his arms. "Why did that blasted thing not have this 'Dean Winchester's' address recorded?"

"I'm sure it was there, after all, Castiel found him the same we did through his soul's energy signature. It just so happens with our luck he was at work instead. The malfunction likely wiped the data Castiel had added into the system."

Uriel nods, though he doesn't let Anna's slow drag of eyes up the building and sudden focus on a single apartment go unmentioned. "What is it, Anna?"

"Nothing." She stares for some moments despite this, but eventually turns back to her comrade. "Let us return at a later time when he is home. We can track his exact residence that way."

Castiel waits until their voices fade into a flap of wings before he heaves a heavy and much anticipated sigh of relief. He may have respect for many of his fellow angels, but those who rank high in the third sphere like Anna and Uriel do frighten him in situations like this. The top ranks of third are well-versed in torture after all.

Once he's sure he's in the clear, Castiel forces himself to his feet, only to have to lean against a wall for support. He's feeling unusually more tired than usual and wonders if it's a side-effect of the wish.

As he hobbles his way to the living room to sit and watch more television, the front door is making a clicking noise. At first Castiel figures it's nothing to worry about, but once he remembers that being the noise the lock makes, he's on alert. Hell, to say Castiel dives towards the couch is an understatement.

Instead of other angels waiting on the other side to punish him, Dean's silhouette appears. He casually swings the door open and quirks a brow at the quietness. Once he's closed the door behind him, Dean drags his bag towards the living room, tosses it by the hallway, kicks off his boots, and then halts to a stop to the left of his couch.

"Dude, have you been there all day?" he asks, eyeing the angel who's now propped up on the couch with his legs hanging off, hands neatly tucked into his lap.

Castiel is more than relieved to have the Winchester home, but he wouldn't dare say it. "For the most part. You did tell me not to touch anything and to entertain myself with this." He gestures briefly at the TV.

A small laugh follows from the mechanic. "Okay, well, I mean, you could've used my laptop too, I guess—"

"NO!" The yell is accompanied by wide eyes and a clench at the fabric of his suit pants.

Dean's brows come together. Okay, so he'd gotten used to responses like that from Sam when they'd lived together, but that was once upon a time. The nostalgia trip is not an unwelcome one though.

Castiel bows his head and clears his throat. "I-I mean, no, thank you. I am content with the television."

Dean shrugs, satisfied with the "explanation"—who is he to nitpick?—and moves to flop down onto the cushions next to the other man. A long day at work leaves him apathetic to people's weird reactions to things.

"So when's the last time you showered?" Changing the topic has always worked for him in the past, so Dean figures it'll do him good now. "Those clothes look uncomfortable and stiff. You might as well change too while you're at it."

Castiel's eyes flick up to meet Dean's with uncertainty. "Normally these clothes are quite all right, but it seems your wish is rendering me a little more 'human.'"

"What's that supposed to mean? You're not an angel anymore temporarily or something? Thought you said you had all your powers and stuff still."

"I do," Castiel clarifies, shoulders slumping. "I have my powers still, I'm just very tired and things that normally don't bother me do. I believe there is a restriction in place at this point."

"And, uh, you being tired and bothered by things you're typically chill with is your reasoning behind that guess?"

"Mostly. I would rather not speak about the other factors if that's all right."

Dean shrugs again, this time raising his hands up into the air as well. It's not like he _has _to question these weird-ass angel laws of the universe, so he's not going to bother. Curiosity can shove it when all Dean wants to do is pop open a cold one and relax.

Before he can enjoy the peace and quiet of relaxation however, Dean has an angel to take care of. He drags himself to his feet and disappears into his room, only to return moments later with an old band T-shirt from that time he dragged Sam to see AC/DC and an old pair of ripped-up jeans. Once he's back, he drops the pile of clothes onto Castiel's lap.

"You. Stop being awkward on my couch. Shower. Down the hall on the right. Guest towels, including wash clothes, are on the bottom shelf. Crank the hot water. Trust me; it'll make you feel better."

The confused expression directed up at him melts into something Dean guesses is gratefulness. "Thank you."

He watches the angel wander towards the designated room and close the door behind him with a click of the lock. That allows Dean to head to the kitchen, get a beer, whip up something to eat from the cabinet, and then get as comfy as he can. He refuses to change into something more comfortable until he's had the chance to shower himself, so no point settling down completely.

What he isn't expecting is to be still watching TV almost twenty-five minutes later.

Dean has been shifting his eyes from the digital cable clock to his hallway every little bit for the past ten minutes now, and he's just about done doing so. Dean pushes himself up and stretches with a groan before heading down his little hall.

"Yo, Cas, did you fall in the toilet or wash down the drain? Is water to angels like it is to the Wicked Witch?"

Some silence passes and Dean presses an ear to the door. He doesn't hear the water running, so he assumes the other man isn't still in the tub, but Dean can't be too sure. Dean certainly isn't well-versed in lore or the real-deal. Who's to say angels don't just sit in there in some ritualistic manner?

He pulls back and raises another hand to knock once more, but his fist almost meets flesh as the door swings open to blue eyes, dripping dark hair, and the clothes he'd provided fitting around the other man's form fairly well.

"What are you doing?" The scratchy voice of the angel breaks the silence and Dean has to laugh and lower his arm.

"Apparently almost punching you in the nose."

"Why would you do that?" There goes the bird-tilt again. Dean's not exactly surprised.

"I was gonna knock again, asshat. Wasn't expecting you to suddenly open the door."

"Oh."

There's another brief quiet stretch before Castiel moves past Dean and towards the living room. "My apologies for taking so long. It was more enjoyable than I thought it'd be."

Dean shrugs for what feels like the tenth time. "Hey, man, hot showers are good. Can't blame you." Even if his impatience had turned into anger, Dean really can understand. After all of the times he's had long days at work or been down and chose not to overdo it with drinking, hot showers are one of the only things able to relax his tense muscles.

At this point he's about ready to soothe his own aches when something catches his attention. Dean can't remember the last time he had a house guest and his pet peeves are quickly coming back into play. Before he realizes it the words are slipping out in smooth, unhesitant lines, blunt and forceful.

"Cas, man, can you not friggin' drip all over my floor? If you can't tell, I don't own the place. I pay rent. So unless you use your useless angel mojo to contribute and make some money with a magic show or something, go drip elsewhere."

A certain coldness settles in the air and Dean's almost certain he just found a sure-fire way to piss off an angel. Castiel is silent, but the tenseness that's replaced former calm is more than enough to support this. He merely nods slowly then heads back to the bathroom.

Okay, maybe Dean's being a little harsh. After all, it's pretty much his fault Castiel is stuck here. But for crying out loud, the angel didn't need to walk around dripping wet, did he? Hasn't he heard of _using_ a towel for its actual purpose, like, say, drying off first?

But then again, are angels even taught basic human "common sense"? They're not exactly residents of _Earth_ after all. Hell, according to Castiel, angels are warriors, counselors, and governors, handling universal affairs and things humans can't even begin to comprehend. _Crap_. What an idiot you are, Dean.

"Cas, wait." After some seconds the mechanic is on his way down his little hall after Castiel. Maybe he doesn't like to show his guilt, but he sure as hell feels it. A lot.

It only takes a moment to make it to the doorway. Dean leans a hand against the pane and peers inside, green eyes meeting blue. A smaller towel is now laying around his shoulders, hair roughed up from likely having towel-dried it.

"What is it? If needed, I can clean up the floor."

"Nah, don't worry about that. Look, uh, sorry. I shouldn't have snapped at you. I get it you're not from around here and don't know our ways."

"It's not exactly your tone that bothered me, Dean."

Dean quirks a brow at that comment. "Huh?"

Castiel turns back towards the sink and uses the towel to roughly rub over his head one final time before resting it back around his shoulders. He doesn't turn back towards Dean, but the man can certainly see his reflection in the mirror. It looks weary, uncertain.

"The truth of the matter is I am frightened." Blame the puppy eyes and way Castiel acts reminding him a little of Sam, but Dean definitely feels like a giant ass now. "I'm stuck on a planet I know precious little about that I typically come to for mere brief visits. Additionally, I'm tired. More tired than I've ever felt. And then there's the issue of Ann—"

The way he cuts himself off makes it almost impossible for Dean to resist asking. "What? Issue of what?"

A sharp intake of breath and fear reflected in his mirror is what greets Dean's line of vision. But instead of answering him, Castiel pushes past him and discards the towel onto the floor. Dean's not having any of this bullshit though.

The slapping noise of his hand meeting Castiel's wrist practically echoes in the hallway and he rips towards him so hard it takes the angel off guard. In fact, Castiel's barely able to keep his footing steady. Angel or not, he's definitely showing his exhaustion.

"Hold the fuck up." Dean doesn't care about the slow way Castiel's head turns to look at him, a blank, too emotionless expression plastered on his face. "What's the issue? You're not going to be all secretive when we're stuck in this mess together. Start talkin', asshat."

If Dean thought he knew what it was like for angels to be angry before, he's now realizing he was sourly mistaken. The emotionless features are met with a similar tone and his lights flicker. "Let. Go. Dean." Each word is emphasized as if a separate sentence, but Dean doesn't budge.

"_No_. Not until you talk. What's the matter with you? You've been weird since I came home. Well, weirder. Look, I don't know you well, but—"

"You're right, you _don't_. Now let go." This time Castiel's features are shifting into tight lines and his eyes are narrowing.

Dean's still not having it. Like he's going to let some angel come into his home and act like an angry little kid. No way in hell. "You can try to intimidate me with your lightshows and Dark Knight voice, but this is _my_ home. And whether you like it or not, you are stuck here with me. So let's do each other a favor and not act like we're in preschool—"

"You said I'm useless!"

Dean's lips part to speak, but he's caught off guard and nothing comes out. When did—? Oh, right. That. "No, I said your _powers_ are." It'd probably be in his best interest to think things through before continuing to talk, but hey, that's always been more Sam's style than his. "I mean, what good are they if they can't make money poof out of thin air?!"

There's no guessing when it comes to what Castiel's feeling this time. His eyebrows come together in a furrow and his lips go into a taut line before he responds.

"You see, this is what I meant by human wishes being trivial! All you care about are material things when there are so many more meaningful issues!"

"How the hell do you think humans survive, huh?!" If this angel wants a fight, Dean's more than willing to bring it. "Money! Unlike you assholes, we use a currency system and if we don't have any money, we're screwed!"

"But money isn't everything and there's plenty you can do without it!"

"It might as fucking well be when nothing else ever works out! Try living a shitty, depressing life then come talk to me, you privileged bitch!"

A harsh tug is all Dean feels before Castiel is storming off towards his front door. But Dean's never the type to let people get off the hook before he's gotten to say everything he wants to say and Castiel is clearly trying to avoid the rest of this confrontation. Screw that.

"Stop following me and let me be!" Castiel is practically screaming now, raised voice getting louder. And Dean, well, he's at the very least matching it.

"Shut the hell up and listen to what I have to say!"

"I am done listening to a man who cannot be reasoned with!"

"Look who's talking! Have you ever even been in my shoes?!"

Castiel stops short, whipping around to glare at Dean. "If you think your life is so bad and beyond repenting, then fine! I will somehow find a way to leave and you can go back to being a miserable egotistical alcoholic who's too stubborn to admit he's lonely and needs help! You can go back to rotting in your own flesh before you're even worm food! They won't even want you with the amount of poison that runs through your veins!"

All right, maybe it isn't Dean's best selection among the list of potential multiple choice, but what's done is done. He can absolutely be a spontaneous asshole. He'd never deny that. However, after the sound of his fist meeting the other figure's jaw actually clicks in his mind for what it is, Dean is feeling a tingle of regret ride up his spine.

Castiel stumbles back a few steps, more-so because he is taken off guard than tired, but Dean doesn't doubt that is playing a big role in it as well. Once the angel's regained his composure though, a thin trickle of blood rolling down his lip and cheek swelling, Dean steps back. There's a scowl forming across his features and retaliation isn't exactly out of the question.

"So angels really do bleed, huh? Color me surprised."

"You do not realize how incredibly lucky you are that I have advanced healing capabilities."

"What? That an invitation? Come on. I've been in more than a few brawls. I've got the never-quite-healed right ribs, jaw, and arm to prove it."

The smug, tough-guy act is something he's so used to he doesn't know when to stop. But Castiel is clearly more patient than Dean takes him for because he's turning away and heading for the door once more. Dean really should learn when to quit. Sam would kick his ass for this. Hell, he'll personally kick his own ass for this if he wakes up next in a pit of flames with cackling shadowy figures all around him.

His next attempt to stop Castiel from leaving is met with the angel smacking his hand away roughly and shoving him back, but Dean is ignoring the obvious attempts to be tolerant. By the time Castiel is turning away for the door yet again, Dean is grasping at his shoulder and doesn't notice the clicking noise echoing outside of the hinged slab.

"Why do you insist on stopping me? Why can you not simply let me leave?" Castiel's voice is quieter now and he turns to meet Dean's green eyes with an exasperated look. "It's what you want, is it not?"

"You said the wish is binding. You can't technically leave anyway."

"I am almost certain my brothers can somehow make an exception in Yggdrasil's programming." Castiel murmurs the words but barely sounds like he believes them himself. "Now let me leave."

"Not until we get a few things straight." Dean has managed to calm his own tone but barely.

"We have each made our points. This argument is over."

"No. You made _your_ point by insulting me and my lifestyle."

"My swollen cheek wasn't _yours_?"

Even if Castiel is right—which, hell, he couldn't have been more accurate with his description of Dean's lifestyle and manner of being—it still pisses Dean off. It's probably _because_ he's right that Dean's skin crawls and his stomach feels like it's on fire.

Which is why when Castiel tries to turn out of Dean's grip and head for the door again for what feels like the twentieth time, Dean's fingers clench harder and suddenly they're both taken off guard. Dean completely forgot he'd left his boots by the door and Castiel's clumsy, distracted footing stumbles over them, but his reflexes snatch onto the nearest thing to keep from falling. Oh, how lucky for Dean.

Both go flying down before either can understand what's happening in a mess of limbs and that's when a panicked Dean realizes what the clicking noise on the outside of the door is—his spare key. He's a little dizzy from bashing his head off Castiel's and going down so fast, but that doesn't stop him from scrambling to his hands and looking up with wide eyes.

"Hey, Dean, do you have a movie on in here or something? What's with all the noise—?"

Definitely not his best plan. Definitely not. It takes him only a moment to realize what this looks like when he darts his gaze from his younger brother to Castiel, who's lying back against the floor underneath him, breathing a tad unsteady. As if things couldn't get any worse, the angel's legs are spread with Dean's body pressed between them in the most R-rated pose he's been in since his last hook-up.

"Sam. Holy shit, _Sam_?" Dean's voice is hoarse from emotion and he swallows once, hard. He then utters the only thing that comes to mind. "T-this isn't what it looks like."


End file.
